[IC] Becoming (A Hannibal Lecter inspired RP)

[The New Yorker]

5:35 AM
June 12th, 2013
Quantico, Virginia

The clay-colored sunlight broke through the blinds on the windows in staggered lines. They were projected across the moderate office wall several feet from Jay L. Carney’s desk. He sat with his back to the window, several bookcases lined the back wall. Across from him were two chairs seated in front of the desk. It was a dimly furnished room, everything were fairly dull colors and the accessories on his desk were unscrupulously bought and placed, not a concern for aesthetic value. Near the computer monitor Jay stared at was a picture of himself, his wife, and two boys (aged 11 and 15 in the picture, now only two years older). They were Aryan, certainly, since Jay was a square-jawed white man with dark-brown hair and a mountain man beard. His beard was considerably smaller now, still longer than any other FBI official in recent history. Jay knew this, he loved this. He sat in his office located in the Behavioral Science Unit section of the FBI headquarters of Quantico, Virginia. He was the Agent-in-Charge, whatever-the-hell that meant.

Quickly, Jay rose from his rested position and picked up a pen from the desk. He scribbled something on a notepad then pressed a red button on his phone receiver.

“Please come in here, Josh.” He spoke evenly, steadily. He scratched the side of his mouth with his pen, and, incidentally, his beard.

“Yes, sir” a tinny voice came from the receiver.

Jay pushed the button and went back to writing on the notepad. A moment later Jay could see out of the corner of his eye a figure walking past the window to his right that showed the hallway. Jay could tell it was Josh. And he was proven right when Josh, a twenty-something year-old Hispanic agent with light, well-manicured hair, walked into his office. He wore a nice looking suit and a red pasley tie, the pin on his lapel spoke of his position in the FBI. Jay pointed to the seat to his right, continued scribbling.

“How’s it going, J.L?” Josh said as he sat, Jay finished up his last note and looked up.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Jay responded finally, he removed the glasses he used for reading.

“Do you ever?”

“Sometimes, not very much lately.” Jay rubbed the space between his eyes and then yawned. “Heath has been mingling with the wrong crowd, I suspect.” He continued, “I had to wait up for him until 3 AM. Felicia was furious when I woke her up.”
“Why’d you have to stay up?” Josh asked.

Jay stared at the boy-agent for a few moments, expecting him to know that married men never did anything uncomfortable unless their wives made them. But, maybe he did not know. Maybe Josh was a homosexual and never had to deal with women under these sorts of circumstances, Jay never could tell. “She made me,” he finally said. “He smelled like pot and tequila, glitter everywhere.”

Josh noticed, now that Jay mentioned it, that he had glitter in his beard. It didn’t sparkle, but it was clear now that he looked for it. “If that’s all he’s doing, you should be proud. The things I was doing at that age were a lot stronger than that.”

“The FBI know that?” Jay asked playfully. He stood from his chair and walked to the coffee maker near his desk. He took the carafe and filled his mug, then another. He sent the other Josh’s way, he sat back down.

“Oh, yes. My former amphetamine use is well documented. Psych screens normal, recent drug tests negative.” He raised his hands as if surrendering.

“You’re a special case Mr. Rodriguez.” Jay admitted before he sipped from his mug. Then he remembered that he had something to tell his young, and relatively new, agent. “Oh, right. I called you in here because I wanted to thank you. You handled that business yesterday very well. Flying out to New York on such short notice is really annoying, I know.”

“It’s my home, sir, no problem at all.” Josh interrupted. He continued, “I was able to see my mother. So thank you, sir”

“That’s great, Josh. Any word?”

Josh nodded slowly, his eyes glanced down at the ground, he wasn’t sure how to begin. This morning, as he sat in the private jet that brought him back to Virginia, Josh poured over the evidence, he was enveloped by gruesome picture after another, that of the crime he’d just visited in Buffalo, and the others which had happened there in the past. He spoke the words as he practiced in the plane mirror, “We have reason to believe that this is the work of the Buffalo Butcher.”

Jay simply stared at Josh for a few moments. He heard the words but could not react. This was the news he feared, this is the truest reason why he never slept, the continuation of the great hunt. He knew that this meant the beginning of yet another attempt to catch one of the most successful, and deviant serial killers since Hannibal Lecter himself. “Josh,”

The young agent stared back at Jay, waiting for a response, so when he got one he didn’t know exactly what to do. “Yes, J.L,” Josh responded.

“Thank you for telling me this. I don’t want to start this conversation yet.”

“Why, sir?” Josh was curious of what Jay would say. He knew what Jay was thinking, he wanted Mark to be there with them. But, and this is what Josh was curious about, would Jay admit that he couldn’t even think about this case without the oh so broken Mark Vern being in the room?

The answer was that he could not. Josh made his way down the corridors in a steady beat. He greeted people who greeted him but ignored everyone else. He bounced with a dignified stature, he held power here. In no time he was in the rotunda which housed the very many lecture halls within the headquarters. Recruits filed from a classroom and into the dark wooden hallways, leather shoes squeaking against expensive marble. This institution was built to accept the brightest minds and make them feel like they were being pampered, because they were. This was the happy side of the FBI headquarters, the theoretical side. Josh allowed the last of the students to leave the room he was headed to, then walked in. There was a young man speaking with Mark momentarily about the homework he assigned. Mark seemed to give the student a succinct answer, then sent him along. Josh stepped up quickly then.

“Hello,” Josh started, “J.L sent me.” His eyes were shielded, he tried not to let the cat out of the bag too early. But, considering Mark was a skilled pathologist, Josh doubted he wouldn’t see past his ruse.

8:45 PM
June 11th, 2013
Charlotte, North Carolina

It was raining in Charlotte when Gerald Yun entered the police headquarters there. He was carrying a briefcase and a very large umbrella. His suit was cheap and stunk of the FBI, and perhaps cigarettes. He was a clean shaved middle aged man with a bit of a beer-belly. Gerald sat calmly at a bench near the bullpen on the second floor of the police station, every so often he’d check his watch.

He was fetched by a dull looking detective who brought him to the chief’s office.

“Mr. Yun?” The chief asked. She was a tall skinny brunette with short hair. Grey streaks and crow’s feet marked her age. Her pistol was visible on her waist, she sat with a document in her hands. The two shook hands and smiled amicably after Gerald confirmed his identity. The two spoke casually for a few minutes before settling on the time and location of Gerald’s business there. He was sent to secure the transition of a future recruit.

“So I will be in the hotel next to the airport, it’s all in her briefing. She can meet me in the lounge downstairs two hours before the scheduled time of departure. As I said all the information is in the briefing, in this case.” He settled the case he brought with him on the desk and tapped it. Papers were signed, hands were shaken, and Anne was called from her work. Gerald left the office and looked down the hall, a young looking red haired woman made her way down the hall. He stopped for a moment then thought better of greeting her here. They’d have time to get acquainted at the hotel and during the plane ride home. So, Gerald left the office then, left Anne to receive her briefing and dream of the life to come in the FBI.

[Deamonbane]

He closed his eyes. It was all there. One man, one woman, three children, two boys and one girl. A pair of dogs, one of each sex. Not for pups, of course, but for company. Dogs poisoned, expertly while the masters were away, indicating some sort of affinity with animals. The dogs were meant to be children's pets, not watchdogs, so they accepted the arrival of a stranger. How he got in at the time to poison them was something of a mystery, considering that it happened a few days before the actual crime. A picked lock, a broken window... anything was possible. What came next was the horrific part.

Children, poisoned in their previous meals, went to bed, never to awaken. Husband immobilized with a syringe to the neck, wife bound as husband lay there watching helpless. Pictures hung above the wife's head, proof of her cheating on her husband, displayed for the horrified man to see, details shared by the assailant, by all counts. Wife raped brutally then, before he clamps his hand around her throat and squeezes the life out of her. Husband, with blood pumping with still immobilized by the anesthetic, has his carotid artery sliced with surgical precision, and left to bleed out. Assailant uses a preservative, so no usable DNA evidence found on the woman. Everything wiped down perfectly, leaving no evidence that there was a killer in the house at all, with no signs of forced entry, or alarms going off. Neighbors didn't see anything. Assailant feels he must be like a ghost, with the only evidence that he was in the house at all being the five murders.

"This ritual was performed seven times, in three states and four cities," Mark said to his class," Number of children varied, of course, but there were always children. Pets ranged from dogs, cats and even birds, to sometimes no pets at all, although if there was a pet in the house, so much as a hamster is was found dead, poisoned as well," He avoided looking at them when at all possible, but a few glimpses had a small bead of sweat running down his back. Daddy issues, from how she stared at the older man in the class with a mixture of fear, respect and sexual attraction, BDSM tendencies from the older man, from the delicate scars around his wrists and lips, from where restraints and gags were applied with a little too much enthusiasm. Manipulative with partners with a younger man to the right, quitting on men because of heartbreak with the woman on the left.

He clenched his hand and continued, forcing the quick and exacting judgement of each student that he looked at," An obsession with death, needing to leave everything gone in his wake. His victims are of varied nationalities, backgrounds, ethnicities and creeds. The fact that he only physically abused the wives, shows signs of hatred and lust that have gone too wild, even for him. Thus he needs a reason for it, and here we find his pattern. His judgement, as it were before sending the wife to his afterlife, is exposing her guilt to her husband, as he watches helplessly. These are the serial killers that are dreaded, not only because of the brutality of the crime, but because of the inability to be able to narrow down on the killer through his potential victims, who are both too numerous and too anonymous. There is emotion in the killing, seen in the very personal way that he kills the wife," Picture shown," but other than that, he keeps his killing of the rest of the family members strictly unemotional. The killer was caught through this emotional catch, as he left fingerprints on the neck of the wife of his seventh family, in which we were able to track him and bring him to justice. The name of the killer and his victims will be withheld, because tomorrow you each will study the files sent to your respective emails and produce a psychological profile on the killer," He dreaded this moment, but he was so close to the end.

He looked up to his class," Dismissed."

He quickly averted his eyes as all the people in the room stood quickly, running their eyes over friends' notes, ideas and talking excitedly. Mark turned to his table and quickly arranged his papers for the tenth time in the last two hours, taking a deep breath. He had done it. One more day. Practice your interactions with people, his doctor had said. If you don't like them, learn to tolerate them at least.

It was working, so far.

"Professor?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin as the thin, high-pitched voice of a female student came up behind him. He spun around a bit too quickly and adjusted his glasses," Yes, Miss..." What was her name?" Miss Gillian? How can I help you?"

A polite smile came with an overwhelming attack of knowledge, battering at his senses, making him blink and clench his hands. Overprotective family, Minnesota, larger brothers, too shy for her own good but inherently a nice person, too shy, too afraid of the world around her but trying to put on a brave face. Wanting to move ahead of her family, outdo her mother, since she apparently still had some power over her, as well as impress her father. Not too popular in school, therefore seeing every male around her as a potential mate, thus the flirtatious high tone of her voice and over abundance of smiles.

God, she was still speaking, wasn't she? He forced a smile," I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I asked if you were called in to observe on this case, or provide an analytic observation on the assailant?"

Sneaky. Cheater. Smarter than he gave her credit for," I don't do field work, Miss Gillian. I only study it," Was enough of an answer to stall her from discovering if the murders happened before or after he came to the FBI, thus giving her clues as to the timeline of the murders," You would do well by doing the same, I think."

A disappointed look crossed her face," I will, hard to with so little evidence and lack of eyewitnesses."

Mark scowled now," Profiles are built by observing the evidence. Crucial information is hard to find, even with eyewitnesses. People see what they want to see in other people, not the truth. Evidence never lies, and never covers up information because of first impressions," He shook his head," Have a nice day Miss Gillian," He turned away, hoping she would take the hint.

She did, but he heard another set of footsteps coming closer. God, please not another trainee. Mark turned and did a doubletake. This was a full agent, badge and everything, and arrogance to match. Odd. They never liked coming down here, especially to talk to professors. Failed agents, they saw them as, unworthy of being in the field, doing the real work, catching the bad guys, not teaching other people how to do it. There was something beside loathing in this man's eyes, though. fear, anxiety, a weird twitch in his neck that meant that he was here because he had to be, not because he wanted to. He hadn't been ordered down here, though, not really.

Mark swallowed and blinked, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes, thankful for the reprieve of the bombardment of information that he didn't want," Of course he did. Why else would you be here?" What would make this obviously skilled and intelligent agent afraid? No, not afraid... anxious. Like someone he trusted more than he would his father was afraid, and like a good son he was confused as to why, and anxious to make that fear go away. J.L. Head of the BSU division of the FBI, in charge of handling the... touchy cases.

"You know I don't handle field cases, Agent, and so does J.L."

[Aidilein]

The woman made pulled open the heavy door to the complex, the weight of a draft pushing against it, and let it bang with behind her with a thud that echoed through the staircase. She made her way up concrete stairs, two paper bags and a leather Michael Kors purse balanced in hand, black heels emerging from a grey pantsuit. Finally, on the third floor, she knocked on the first door. It took a few minutes before the peephole slid open, followed by the lock.

"I keep telling you, I can do my own shopping, Annie." Mom said. She was dressed in a velvet red houserobe, dusty blonde hair in a tight bun. She smiled, showing a row of teeth too perfect for age and squinted eyes, faded blues specific to cataracts.

"Well, come in." She gestured, stepping ahead, and Anne walked through the door. The apartment was the same as always, dark yet cozy. Rugs, never beaten anymore, lined every square foot of the tile flooring, and the hall, after a sharp right turn, led straight to the small kitchen equip with a stove, fridge, washing machine, sink, and table booth.

"I only got you a few things, on the way to get my own groceries." Daughter lied, and began unpacking the cans and cartons into their specific spots. The shopping put away, she finally slid into the bench and unclasped her purse.

"Mama, guess what." She said, cheerful. Twenty-Seven years old, and she never stopped calling her mother "mama".

"I've been called to work on a case. From the looks of it, it's a pretty big one. This came from the FBI on Monday." Anne passed the letter across the table, folded twice in her softly manicured hands, though Mama could hardly read it even in her thick glasses. The matriarch did pick up on one thing, however.

"Virginia?"

"Yes, Quantico. I'm supposed to attend a briefing in two days, and then I leave."

"That's great news! Oh Annie, look, they picked you specifically- no one else from your department is going, right?"
Anne smiled. Of course, Mom would be excited and proud.

"Hmm, I don't think so. No one else mentioned getting this call, and I've already been excused from my work. It's the talk of the office, really!" She boasted, grinning. The old lady's face clouded with a glimmer of worry.

"What's the case about?"

"I'm not really sure... I haven't been told any specifics." She scrunched up her forehead, light brows meeting together, and thought. Honestly, there was little the agent knew. Virginia was a place she had only visited briefly, years ago to visit a friend, and they definitely didn't spend the trip discussing the politics or crimes of the sate. Still, it was Quantico, site of both the Marine Corps and the FBI academy. Too good of an opportunity to pass up.

That afternoon, Annie sat and talked with her mother until the late evening, which wasn't a rare occurrence. She visited her daily, at least for a minute to say hello or bring her dinner, even though the pair lived 20 minutes apart. They played cards, a family tradition, and joked about childhoods and jobs, laughing into the night like the best friends they were. Around midnight, they said goodbye at the door.

"I'm not sure how long I'll be gone." Anne said, already out on the drafty staircase, bag and keys in hand. She thought for a minute.
"Probably not more than a few weeks. I'll call, and if you need anything, I can have my girlfriends or the neighbors check up on you."

"Annie, stop, I'm not that old!" Mom cut her off, 'You worry too much. Go enjoy yourself, maybe pick up a rich man while you're there!". They laughed, hugged, and then waved through the window as Anne drove away in her cream-colored Porsche Panamera, a luxurious gift to herself after a large raise and bonus from a case well investigated two years ago. Mom mentioned men, as always... it was a bother to both the women that Anne wasn't married, though she refused to push Chris toward such a commitment. She wasn't sure herself, even, if she was ready for the home life she had always hoped to achieve, a seemingly low dream- to be a housewife- yet glorified in her eyes thanks to her own, amazing Mama. Chris, though partner to Anne for a year and a half now, hadn't even been notified yet of her new job. If anything, they were together just to have someone, distant except for when the rare bout of loneliness hit. It was no wonder Mom didn't see him as her "man", and constantly tried to set her daughter up with potential fathers and suitors.

Two day later, forensic agent Anne Sanders arrived at the CLT Hilton, briefcase in hand and luggage sent off minutes ago. She wore a indigo, tailored sheath dress that stopped just above her knees and black heels, crucial to a woman of her elfin stature. The outfit, possibly sexy on a woman with more curves and height, was just professional on her- though not unattractively so. A gabe jacket was slung on her arm, and she wore her red hair in a high, slick bun. A dab of concealer ineffectively struggled to hide her girlish freckles.

She looked around the lobby, searching for a Gerald that had been pointed out to her the day before at a briefing but whom she hadn't met. Finally noticing him, or at least a man similar from far away, she walked surely forward and introduced herself.

"Mister Yun? I'm Anne Sanders, we corresponded over the phone. I'm from the forensics department in Apex."

[The New Yorker]

5:39 AM
June 12th, 2013
Quantico, Virginia

Josh could feel himself being read as Mark stared him down, pinpricks washed over his back and arms. They young agent smiled nervously after Mark spoke. He didn’t really know how to respond to someone so notoriously perceptive.

“Yes, everyone knows that, Mark.” He wanted to say, ‘and you never let anyone forget it’ but decided against it. “I’m Josh, by the way, we’ve met. I took one of your CSI classes, years ago.” Josh remembered that time fondly, when he was just a recruit. That was before he worked closely with J.L on a very important, very dangerous case. That was before he ranked in the 99th percentile on his agent exams. That was before he saved J.L’s life. He began again, “We have new information about a sensitive case. J.L wants you on it, and so do I; and I happen to be the lead investigator on this case, so that should mean something.” In case Mark felt like he had anything negative to say Josh put his hand out, he was clearly trained by J.L on how to deal with Mark. “You’ll get provisionary special agent status, no red tape, nobody breathing down your neck. And, listen, we need you. There is no one in the agency like you, no one. Now, we both know you’re not going to say no, follow me.”

The couple walked back down the clean corridors and back to J.L’s office. Josh entered first, held the door open for Mark to enter. He closed the door behind the professor and took his seat at the right-most chair. J.L was looking through a hearty federal law book. It was old but J.L kept it around for nostalgia’s sake. When Josh and Mark entered, J.L put this aside, he looked up and removed his reading glasses. He stroked his beard as the two sat down.

“It’s a pleasure to see you on this side of H.Q, Mr. Vern.” Jay joked. “I assume Josh has filled you in on the rough details. We need you now more than ever, Mark.” He gave Josh a miniscule symbol and the young agent reacted hesitantly. He placed the weighty file on the desk in front of Mark and opened it.

Scenes of women, and men, ranging from a week ago to 15 years ago, filled the file. Some specifics were different, like the varied amounts of bruises around the body, generally pre-mortem. But, what was always the same, was the bisection of the victim. Almost always the victim, in some way or another was cut down the middle, their stomach skin flapped over the sides like slaughtered livestock. There was one women, from 5 years ago, who was brutally raped and sodomized by a jackhammer, completing the monsterous bisection that way. Another man, from 8 years ago, had his head, from crown to throat, split in two. It seemed like these mutilations occurred postmortem, luckily for the victims. Sometimes organs were missing, sometimes pieces of flesh.

There was an eerie quietness, “Do you know what this is, Mark?” Jay asked, he tilted his head to get a better view of the mad genius sat in his office once again.

7:30 AM
June 12th, 2013
Charlotte, North Carolina

Gerald wore a 5 cent suit, a small duffle bag leaned against the seat where Gerald ate an egg-white and tomato wrap his wife had prepared for him the day before, it was cold, but still pretty good. He finished it just as Anne walked up. He noted her figure but tried his best to not think about it. He extended his hand as she introduced herself and nodded. “Yes, Ms. Sanders. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” With the greetings out of the way Gerald invited Anne to accompany him to the car waiting outside. Gerald had already checked out of the hotel room he was staying at and so found no reason to linger around any longer, though they did have a little time to kill. The couple entered the stylish Lincoln, woman before man, and Gerald signaled the driver to drive.

The black vehicle quickly got on a freeway and headed toward his destination. It was cool in the car, it blocked out the surprisingly humid air and even more surprisingly shining sun. Meteorologists predicted there was going to be thunderstorms for the rest of the week, like there was last night. But that wasn’t the case. The ground had even dried since the last rain. Gerald took another glance at Anne’s file while they drove. “I’ve double checked your case records, your autopsy journal entries, your exams, your recommendation, and I’m rereading your essay. It’s all very impressive Ms. Sanders. I don’t say this to anyone, but you’re FBI material. If you wanted it” he concluded, “I bet you’d fly through recruitment training.” He put the papers away. The two would speak about a few subjects on their way to the airport, touching only briefly on Anne’s future. Gerald was an inquisitive man who knew a great deal about American history and wanted to know more about the places Anne was familiar with.

Eventually they reached the airport, then, ahead of schedule, they boarded. It was a commercial flight but they were in business class. Gerald ordered a rum and coke, placed the black card the FBI had given him into the stewardess’ hands. “Put whatever she wants on it, too.” Gerald said, then he chuckled and winked at Anne. “Take advantage, it’s on the company payroll,” Gerald said playfully, he pulled a file unrelated to Ms. Sanders and began to leaf through it.

9:30 AM
June 12th, 2013
Brooklyn, New York

The stinking, smoggy air of Manhattan was wafted into Brooklyn on an unfortunate air parcel. Dennis stood on the terrace of his office when the familiar smell of garbage and gasoline passed his nose. He wrinkled his nose, then he thought of something. This was alien air, passing from a different ecosystem into his own. It was deviant air. Dennis stuck out his tongue, something in him said he must taste this. A low toned beep came from the rest of his office behind him. On the terrace itself was a set of lounging chairs placed on either side of a blue tinted glass table. The white stucco floor turned into hardwood as Dennis passed the threshold of the glass sliding door that separated the two areas. He wore a pair of dark-blue suade shoes, white pants and shirt along with a light blue checkered vest, his white coat was tossed somewhere over a chair. He crossed over to his plain wooden desk set on a marble dais and spoke into his intercom.

“Yes, Marcy?” The doctor asked. His voice was soft, loving.

“Phillip is here.” A squeaky voice responded.

“Send him in.”

Dennis quickly walked over to his bar, put away the bottle of wine and empty wine glass, stained with the purple stuff. Wouldn’t want his patients knowing he often times drank before appointments. As he closed up the bar the door to his office was opened. Phillip, a young brunette lad with horn rimmed glasses, teenage attire, entered the room. He was coy, he smiled from behind his glasses and with the door between him and the doctor. His fingers were thin, the ends were rounded like a frog’s. Freckles crossed his nose, his eyes were green. “Hello, Doctor,” he said as he closed the door, and thus closing the eyes of the world. His voice was shaky, it didn’t crack by some miracle.

“Hello, Phillip.” Dennis responded. He gestured toward the terrace and followed behind the young man.

“I had a dream, Dr. Shavleson.” Phillip said brightly, he was smiling. It was clear that this was new to him, his chapped, mutilated, lips almost bled.

“What was it about?” Dennis leaned in a little from his sitting position, he held a pad on his lap yet he had no intention of using it. When it came to Phillip, he didn’t need notes, he remembered everything the lad said.

“My mother, it was about how she died. I saw, Millie, you remember Millie, in the dream. She was wearing my mother’s sleeping robes. She looked so much like her, so much like my mother.”

“How did that make you feel, when you woke up?” Dennis asked.

“Repulsed. It was distressing. But, then I remembered what you told me.”

“What did you remember, Phillip?”

“Repulsion is the gateway to the human soul.” He repeated the words as if in a dream.

Dennis took in a deep breath, he did not smile, though he wanted to. He tilted his head back, still staring at Phillip’s emerald eyes. The doctor felt a tidal wave of expectations washing upon the shores of his consciousness, he imagined that, in fact. On the sandy shores of the dark beach tucked in the blackest corners of his mind crimson waves lap upon land and cough up a figure. It’s an effigy of Phillip, something inane. Dennis, completely naked, grabs the effigy and ties it to a post, burns it, as you do an effigy. From the fires a naked, shivering Phillip emerges, his newly born eyes sensitive to the light. “And, what happened?”

“I felt the light guide me. I took action.” Phillip spoke these words through a veil, he didn’t look at the doctor now, but through him. He looked lustful.

“I want to hear all about that.” Dennis said, he smiled briefly now.

[Deamonbane]

The annoying thing about talking to Mark was that his eyes never stayed still. He saw what he wanted to see, with a little bit more besides, and spent the rest of the conversation looking away from the person that he was talking to. He thought that it might add a bit of mystery to the conversation, considering that half-lies and innuendos were a part of regular conversations that he just didn't find any use for. Meaning that he couldn't pull them off. He had tried repeatedly in college, but had ended with results of people looking at him like he was speaking a foreign language, so he gave it up altogether. Speaking firm and direct might have been a little awkward for some people, but it was the easiest for him.

His eyes cleared as he brought his mind back to the conversation, and he narrowed them. He was the best that the Agency had, at least in his particular field. His face went from the mask of the mild professor to an annoyed man as the Agent continued. Special Agent status, no red tape and no one breathing down his neck. He would believe the last two when he saw them. Maybe when Santa would stop by and leave him a couple presents too. But at the last, he was right. Vern wasn't going to say no. He was here to help the FBI however he could. If J.L. wanted, he could petition that Vern be transferred, and he would have little to say about that. The people in charge didn't take instructors very seriously, after all.

So he followed the Agent... Josh was it? Back to J.L.'s office. It was just as he remembered it from that interview where Vern had accepted a single case from the man, and later regretted it, coming back here to regretfully resign from active work and go back to teaching trainees. He blinked and sat down across from J.L., remaining silent, never looking at the man. He knew as much as he cared to about the man. He worked on being strong, being a leader in front of the people that worked for him. He was strong, smart, and knew how to play the game. When Vern looked, he saw more, but he closed his mind against that. Any more and he would lose respect for the man, and that was not good for a man in his position.

Glad to finally have something to latch onto, he pushed his glasses closer to his eyes and looked at the pictures. Most people would have been horrified, awed by the scene after scene of horrific and terrific death that was in these pictures, but he wasn't. He had seen death too many times to be shocked by it, so his eyes looked over the pictures, taking in the details, committing them to memory and pushing them aside in favor of the next one. There was a pattern here. Most people attributed brutality in killings to passion involved, but crimes of passion were invariably simple. Clubbing to the head, shooting, knife, etc. They all showed the same pattern. They were sloppy. Here there was a a different pattern. Brutality, but no passion. They were meticulous, sharp and showing knowledge and icy skill, but there was something else too. It went beyond cold murder. Enjoyment was in the actions, but they weren't the reason. It was like he was practicing, keeping to a single part of his ritual, changing everything else sporadically.

He narrowed his eyes. There was something here that didn't add up. He looked up when Jay asked a question. Did he know what this was? His eyes twitched as his mind processed the information.

"What do I see?" He sighed, leaning back. He hadn't been exposed to the case files of the Buffalo Butcher yet, but he could put two and two together. He had seen little bits and pieces, little hints here and there before they were stashed away under the words 'Investigation Pending' which meant that no one but the investigating Agents could lay eyes on them. But he knew who this was. He could tell from a mile away. He had been in college when the investigations concerning the 'Chesapeake Ripper' had been all over the news, followed by the arrest of renowned and respected psychiatrist Hannibal 'the Cannibal' Lecter had been arrested, but he had followed the case details as close as he had been able. And now he was being shown the pictures and evidence files of the only one that had matched the Cannibal since he was arrested. But he took a deep breath. As much as he wanted to help track this man down, he knew the kinds of paths that he would have to walk to be able to," What do you want me to see, J.L.?"

[Dredigan]

Thomas Wakefield pushed open the door to the office-room of the Bureau's headquarters in Quantico, Virginia and walked through the cluster of desks until he found his own cubicle. He was skilled but apparently not quite skilled enough to be allowed his own office. Oh well, he didn't need a private room to look over papers all day. Not many people paid attention to him as he entered, they were used to the eccentricity of his overdressed, over-confident, and less-than-social character and nobody tried to interrupt it unless they needed to for work. This was okay with him, it simply meant that he got to go about his business in solitude. It certainly made the walk to his desk every morning much more peaceful. As he sat he set down the manila folder he had been carrying down onto his desk and shoved it off to the side for a moment as he sipped on his coffee, checked his silvery pocket-watch, and folded up his sunglasses to tuck into the pocket of his black suit; the jacket of which he slid off and allowed to rest over the back of his chair.

Once he had settled in, rolled up his sleeves, and finished his coffee he slid his folder back over to the center of his desk and flipped it open. He'd been on leave for the past two weeks as a reward for getting one of the towns low-key serial killers locked up. The folder was full of details on new cases that had popped up in his absence, some of them were the kind he'd probably get dropped on and others were just being shown to him as formalities. Nothing too important. He wouldn't have any work to do until somebody came by and actually assigned him a case which probably wouldn't happen for at least a couple of hours so he found himself staring off into space and contemplating the case he'd just turned in before his leave. A young man, twenty two years old, psychotic. He'd not seen any man so detached from reality since he'd started working with the FBI, the killer had been murdering young men thinking that if he buried their hearts in his yard they would ward off evil spirits. Maybe it was unethical but Thomas took a certain pride in ensuring that the boy didn't get away with an insanity plea.

After Thomas had spent a satisfactory amount of time reminiscing his most recent case he pulled a leather-bound journal from his desk and opened it up to somewhere near the 1/3rd mark, then flipped forward a few paged until he found a blank one where he began to write.

I'd sadly forgotten this journal here at the Bureau's headquarters so the details of this writing may be somewhat sketchy, it has been nearly three weeks since anything regarding the case of Lewis Kennedy has been discussed. The young man, twenty two years old, was truly psychotic. The time I'd spent interviewing him had been one of the highlights of my career. At least from an academic point of view. I learned a lot from him that can potentially help decipher the enigmatic minds of future subjects with similar psyches. This young man taught me new things in the field of psychology, however he also showed me something that six years with the Bureau should have done already. I now see that I, unfortunately, cannot save everybody. I arrived in time to save his final victim from his demise, but my reflexes were not quick enough and I did not save him in time. I took the young man in alive, however and he has been tried and sentenced. It was a victory, however pyrrhic.

Thomas had recorded his thoughts on every case he'd worked since the beginning of his time with the FBI. He had a leather journal filled just over one third of the way. Each case got one to three paragraphs depending on how profound it was for him, this passed one was not very. It taught him new things, but so did every case, this one was simply another fight he'd finished. Thomas felt as though he should hope for exceptionally difficult cases that could teach him more and leave profound marks on his character however he knew that there was no such thing as a lesson without some kind of pain; and the pain that came with lessons learned in the field was often synonymous with preventable death. But that's the job, and Thomas wouldn't trade it for the world.

He read over what he'd written and then slid the journal back into his desk, closing the drawer and folding the manila folder closed again then sliding it off to the side he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together behind his head as a way to rest his skull, he then turned his chair to look out at the room. Busy people all over, grabbing water from the coolers, typing furiously, talking, frantically walking around. It looked like any other office building, the only difference was that these people's walking, typing, eating, and arguing were supposedly just parts of some great, life-saving, machine. Yes. Supposedly.

[The New Yorker]

5:43 AM
Quantico, Virginia

It is difficult to begin to describe what one sees when looking at the to-be-mentioned photos. The setting, the least personal of the components, is a dingy motel room. The walls are of questionable design, green in color, furniture sparse and dull. The bed is undone slightly, it is drenched in blood. There is also blood on the floor. The floor. The floor is where the girl is. She is contorted into an unhuman shape; her spine is broken, her legs come up and over her (she is laid on her stomach) and are tied to her arms which come up and behind her. Around her bound form is a circle of bedsheets, like a nest, or a spotlight. Most importantly, and most horrifyingly, the girl’s mouth is stuffed with pink, fleshy parts, the autopsy report shows it was her own mutilated reproductive organs. It was a sloppy job, says the autopsy physician, complete amateur work, brutal. One of the photo’s gives the impression of a roast duck on a macabre Thanksgiving day, or a bloody mother hen in ghastly roost.

This is the scene that Mitchel Green, Co-Chief Investigator of the BSU, found in a small bound folder sitting on his desk, early in the morning. He passed it off to his assistant, Kaily Hitchens (as he is known to do), and she passed it on to the desk of Thomas Wakefield. She was a little stand-offish. Everyone in the office had all sorts of ideas and impressions of Mr. Wakefield, none too kind. She placed it on his desk, just as he seemingly stared off into space, and cleared her throat for attention.

“Mr. Green wants you to take a look at this, he needs a profile. He mentioned you might need to head to New York.”

---

Jay watched Mark intently, his dark blue eyes narrowed as Mark dissected the photos. He could tell, by the way he flitted from one piece of information to the next, that he was impressed, for lack of a better word. He knew precisely who this was.

Josh lifted the room temperature cuppa he left on the desk earlier, he drank from it as Mark read. He felt like he was waiting for blood test results, his anxiety was at a height. Then Mark spoke, and Josh had to wait some more. Josh damned all those people who said Mark didn’t have a personality, that would be preferable to the bullheaded runaround Mark was giving right now.

J.L followed up quickly, seriously, “I want you to see the truth, I only want you to see what’s there.” J.L’s finger pressed to the center of the dossier, it tapped furiously. “I want you to get in there, and come out with a profile.”

Josh put down his cup and cleared his throat, he agreed with J.L’s words, he thought that he ought to speak up before he was thrown to the side, “I know my way around a gun, I know how to take care of perps, I can give you a basic profile of any simple killer. But this one is different, you have the only kind of brain that can create a profile of such a skilled, and meticulous hand.” Josh sat upright, angled himself at Mark, “I don’t care what you see, as long as it helps me catch this guy.”

J.L nodded as Josh spoke, he glanced down at his hand and noticed a freckle of glitter on his thumb. He removed the sparkling dot and tossed it aside, disturbed by the memories it conjured. The bearded man rejoined the conversation, “He’s called the Buffalo Butcher.” Then J.L stopped himself, he looked down at his desk then back up at the couple in front of him. “But first, Mark, since you refuse to answer direct questions,” J.L opened the top-most drawer of his desk, took the standard issue pistol from it, along with the temporary special agent badge, and placed them both side-by-side in front of Mark, “if you’re in, take them.”

[Dredigan]

Thomas was brought stumbling back into reality when the folder fell upon his desk. He looked up to the right to see Kaily standing over him.

"Mr. Green wants you to take a look at this, he needs a profile. He mentioned you might need to head to New York." Kaily said. Thomas smiled and nodded at her.

"Thank you, Ms. Hitchens." he said, turning back to his desk and plucking the folder open to gaze inside. The pictures he viewed were... Odd. They stirred feelings in Thomas' stomach that an untrained mind might consider to be uneasiness, but truthfully it was excitement. Thomas always felt strange in the fact that he enjoyed seeing this sort of thing, he definitely never let anybody know how he felt about it. If asked he'd simply say either "It's very unfortunate." or "I don't know how to feel about it." and eventually people stopped asking. He spread the pictures out on his desk side by side so that he could glance over all of them, then he slid a notepad and pen from the basket on the right side of his desk. Touching pen to paper he made note of the way the girl's body was contorted, then where in the room she had been placed. The blood on the bed and floor, the bedsheets surrounding her body. Only after he took note of what struck his eye did he pull out the case notes and read over them. He found, as usual, that all of the major details he noticed (and some he didn't) had been included as clues in the notes.

Thomas always separated the things that he saw himself with the things that he'd learned from the notes, he wrote them down in different sections to help him decipher the difference in what he saw as being important and the things he didn't pick up on. It was half a learning technique and half a deduction tool. He read over the notes three times, each time he'd find more things that would stick out to him and write them down in his own notepad.

Cause of death: Snapped Neck

Footprint, size nine

Scalpel left at the scene

Reproductive organs removed

Spine broken

Mouth stuffed with uterus

Age: 16-17



It had already begun to come together in his mind. Thomas pulled up a blank document on his computer and began to type vigorously.

Post mortem... Power... Neurotic... were words that stuck out to him as he profiled the killer. Several hours passed before he'd come up with anything worth showing, and it wasn't as good as it could have been if Thomas had actually seen the crime scene for himself however what they've given him was enough to get started. He printed the document and slid it into the same folder as the case notes, then stood from his desk and began his trek through the office building. A few minutes later he found himself face to face with Kaily once more. He approached her desk and couldn't help but sniff.

"Ms. Hitchens, I'm surprised that your fragrance is still noticeable so long after it must have been applied. It's excellent, but that's not why I'm here I have this for Mr. Green. May I enter?" Thomas gave her a confident half smile.

[Deamonbane]

Mark looked tentative, cautious. It was obvious that he wanted to take the files, badge and gun and be on this case indefinitely, but there was something stopping him. He looked like a child who had just found that his mother had left a tray of cookies on the counter to cool. He knew that if he took one, he would be discovered and likely punished, but he was still tempted, because he knew that that forbidden taste would be worth just about any punishment in the world. Not unlike Mark was facing now. Going head to head against this guy wasn't just going to be a chase down the proverbial rabbit hole, he knew. It was going to be a chase that was likely to cost him his sanity. He knew it. J.L. Probably knew it too. Assimilating facts had an effect on a psyche, and the way that Mark did it made it even more dangerous. He took everything in like a sponge, and he caught the guys because of what was squeezed out. But like all sponges, a trace of everything that he took in remained, redefined him, no matter how hard or thoroughly he was squeezed clean.

The question was: Was catching this guy worth his own sanity?

He recalled the pictures, the women torn to pieces by this guy. He didn't care about the people themselves. He didn't care about who he was doing it to. What mattered was what he was doing with them," In this guy's mind, he's doing them a favor. An honor, even," His voice was low, as if he was talking to himself," He's including them in this masterpiece of his. He sees himself as an artist, and each kill is it's own stroke of the brush, note written on paper. Each one shows the basis of what he's creating, and yet each one is it's own work, unique," Mark looked up, something akin to purpose in his eyes as they locked on J.L.'s for the first time... since forever," But the masterpiece isn't finished. I think... it's coming to a crescendo," And with that cryptic statement of why he was going to be doing this, he reached over in a slow, deliberate movement, picking up the gun and badge with shaking hands.

[The New Yorker]

10:47 AM
Quantico, Virginia

J.L was satisfied with Mark’s response, he found some insight just in the initial analysis. He knew, in no time, Mark would have something more solid. Whether that profile meant anything at all, after it was complete, was unknowable; which is why J.L immediately put in an order for another jet. Just as he was doing so he received word from Mitchel Green concerning a case he had recently found on his desk. Mitchel worked directly underneath J.L, but sometimes it was hard to tell since Mr. Green ran most of the day-to-day operations and only ever spoke to J.L when there were problems, when he needed something, or if there was a performance review. Since both cases were out in New York, and they were going to be sending agents that way anyway, they signed a joint order (it gave the order more credence and made it far easier to file the forms).

Green wore large horn-rimmed glasses, he was a red-head of middle age with freckles running along his neck; he scribbled something on a notepad as he held the handset of a phone to his ear. J.L was on the other line, this promised to be the last call they’d have to make to eachother all day, they were a bit sluggish with their speech and passively annoyed.

“Who are you sending?” Mitchel placed his pen on the form, waiting for the name.

“Mark… Vern.”

Mitchel tilted his head as he tried to create a face for the name, then it came to him, and he grimaced. “Ah, okay. Is that the teacher?”

J.L was holding his head on the other line, a migraine was creeping up on him. “Yeah.”

“Has that been cleared?” Green asked suspiciously.

“Yeah, I spoke with Central earlier.” J.L responded, he popped a few Advil and sipped the remnants of his coffee to wash them down.

“Well, alright then…”

“Wait,” J.L interrupted, “what’s your agent’s name?”

“Oh, right, uh… Thomas Wakefield.” Green confirmed after checking the running list of names he had near his desk. Just as Mitchel said Thomas’ name he saw the agent walking up to his office door.

Kaily was, once again, unnerved as Thomas approached her desk. “Sure,” she responded, trying to forget the comments he made about her smell.

“I’ve got to go Jay, I’ll talk to you later.” Mitchel said over the phone. He waved Thomas into his office as he hung up with J.L. “Sit down Mr. Wakefield.”

J.L was as happy to get of the phone as Green was, and he got straight down to business as well. Josh was already in his office, sitting just where he had hours earlier. “Josh, I need you to bring this over to Martha and have it faxed to acquisitions, then get Mark. I need him ready to go. Confirmation should be on my desk in less than 30 minutes.” J.L spoke the orders steadily, without any hesitation.

“Am I going with him, sir?”

“Yes. I’ll arrange transport to meet you at the airport. And, Josh,” J.L removed his reading glasses and set them on the desk, “don’t be afraid of Mark. He’s a genius but he isn’t always right, and he’s a man just like me and you, made of flesh, and blood, and bone. If you’re going to do him any good, you need to build a connection with him. Do you understand?” J.L was serious, meticulous with his words. He was setting up the pieces, arranging their paths as such.

“Yes, sir. I won’t let you down, J.L.” Josh said, as a son would to a father, and then he left.

Mitchel Green called in Kaily as Thomas took his seat, he sent his order with her to be faxed. “I need you to head to New York on assignment. Primarily it’s to put you at the crime scene, also so you can assist closely in the investigation.” Mitchel opened the file he was given by Wakefield, glanced through the profile quickly. “I’ll have to correspond with you on the profile after you get to the crime scene. Right now I’d like you to visit the morgue. Take a look at the body, see if it tells you anything. When you’re done there report back up here, I’ll have your assignment all detailed and we can send you on your way. I hope you have a go-bag here, you might be staying over there for a while.” Mitchel took a sip of the glass of water he had next to him and then looked back up at Thomas. “Any questions?”

Josh found Mark easily enough, tucked away in some dark corner of the Headquarters. “Hey, Mark,” Josh spoke ahead of his approach. “J.L wanted to let you know that we’re heading to New York today, in the next half-hour in fact.” Josh sat next to Mark, a sternness appearing on the boy-like face. “I thought I could brief you on the case. It looks like you’ve been working over the files, do you have any questions?” Josh asked. He remembered what J.L said, he needed to ’build a connection’. He held back a laugh as he thought of that advice, combined with the man he figured Mark to be, and the man who stood before him now. Josh lied to J.L, he didn’t actually understand what he was supposed to do, it was like talking to a slightly more responsive brick wall whenever he encountered Mark.

[Dredigan]

"No sir." Thomas responded in a mildy respectful tone once he was told to visit the morgue. He stood from his chair and nodded to Mr. Green. "I'll head there now." Whether Green bid him farewell or not Thomas didn't know, he was 'in the zone' so to speak, his attention focused one hundred percent on the task at hand. He let himself out of the room and strode across the headquarters to the elevator located just outside the main office room. Tapping the button the elevator opened up instantly and allowed Thomas inside. Nobody else was coming toward the elevator so Thomas tapped the button signifying that he wished to go to the Morgue level; to which the elevator responded by silently closing it's doors. Thomas could feel a shift in his weight as the elevator began to move. He felt lighter, almost as if he'd start floating soon. Thirty seconds after entering the elevator Thomas found himself exiting on the morgue level. Assuming the body would be ready for him to look at he entered the exhumation chamber. The mortician wasn't inside, however the body displayed on the table was undoubtedly the same as the one in the pictures.

Thomas slid a pair of rubber gloves as well as a nose-plug from the counter-top and arranged them on his person before approaching the cadaver. He clutched her face and moved it around, examining it for cuts or signs of strangulation. None were apparent. He could see where the girl's uterus had been removed, from just above the pelvis. They were right in saying that it had been butchery. Her spine had been broken in several places as well as her neck. The murderer had contorted her body into a strange, even inhuman position but she had been straightened by now. Thomas felt awkward about this next part, mostly because women weren't exactly his forte, however he made himself spread the girl's legs and examine her vaginal section. It had appeared to be in tact though upon deeper investigation Thomas noted that her hymen had been broken; much as he had suspected.

"That makes sense." he thought outloud. He checked her body over for bruises and located a few, likely from being handled carelessly upon loading her into the plane judging from where they were located. It was sad, however Thomas had begun to feel much more confident in his profile at this point. He'd need to see Mr. Green again immediately, however. So he re-covered the body and disposed of his gloves and nose-plug before heading back up through the same elevator. Parading proudly through the office Thomas grabbed his coat and other essentials from his desk before approaching Green's office again. This time he pushed the door open without Kaily's approval. "Mr. Green, I have an idea. That profile is solid I assure you, however I now agree that traveling to New York will be necessary. I need to speak to this girl's parents as soon as possible." Thomas said confidently.

[Deamonbane]

Mark sighed as he took the files out of the room. This wasn't a class that he was preparing. Lives were at stake, innocent lives, But he couldn't take this personally. He knew what would happen if he got too invested in this thing. He was just going to treat this like it was a class. It allowed him to use his mind at it's sharpest, and yet not becoming emotionally involved. Like this was a drill, an exercise. He knew how slim the chances were of him remaining aloof in this case, like walking on the edge of a very sharp knife, but he had to hold. He had to keep himself together, or he would lose himself to... well, himself, and the path back to sanity was long and arduous.

He found his office, somehow and set everything down on his desk. He gingerly placed the badge and gun inside one of the desk's drawers and sat down with a sigh. He spied a mug of coffee on his table. It was from before his last class, and while he usually would have avoided cold coffee, he leaned forward, grabbing the half full mug and, after a sniff, chugged it down quickly. He placed a call asking for more coffee, hot this time, to be delivered to his office before he got himself working, churning through the pile of evidence. Reading through details of cases that were so old they were from before the time that Lecter had been arrested. Interesting. It seemed like this man was something of a pupil of the man, but not of Hannibal Lecter. He was an admirer of The Chesapeake Ripper's work. That was interesting. There had been a surge of copycats after Lecter's arrest, and a sick sort of following had developed and subsequently crushed by the FBI. They hadn't been as careful or as artistic as Lecter was. His coffee arrived, and he mechanically poured himself a mug and sipped at it, and scowled. He didn't like his coffee black. He poured some sugar and cream into it and proceeded to ignore it for a while.

This guy was something else. He had already determined, from his purely female selection of victims as well as the rough treatment that some of them had taken, that the perp was male. Women killed women all the time, but they didn't like to do it over and over again, and they certainly didn't abuse them sexually. There was always the option that there were multiple perps, but he doubted it in this case. One person, or one group of persons, had carried this out. If it was a group, they were looking for people that stayed together all the time, rarely involving anybody new. A minuscule cult, perhaps?

Mark discarded that idea. If there were more than one person, there would have been multiple signatures on the work of art, signifying multiple artists. No, this had been carried out by one man. Without help, or if there was help, the help would have been quickly disposed of to keep his secret from getting out. He wasn't displaying his work for the world, even if that was an unavoidable after-effect. He was creating his own sick form of art because it pleased him, because it made him feel good. He left a signature. He didn't want anybody to copy his work, so he made each work unique in it's own fashion, but with one thing being the same, even if it was performed by different brushes, as it were.

He looked up, taking an automatic sip from his coffee as Josh stepped in," New York?" He asked absently, still deeply engrossed in his thought process," Why would I want to go there?" The question was put forth innocently enough, although with enough roughness to maybe, just maybe have Josh leave him alone. Where was he? Right. His manner of execution. It was rarely the same.

[The New Yorker]

10:50 AM
Quantico, Virginia

Josh’s face was blank for a few short moments when Mark responded. The “Kid Detective”, as he was sometimes referred, analyzed the response, he applied personality traits to it, he attempted a profile. The question Mark poised could be taken many different ways, Josh saw it as rhetorical, even if Mark didn’t mean it to be. It didn’t matter what the answer was, Mark wanted his ambivalence in the air, open. There was also a passive-aggressiveness there, a quiet opposition. But why?

Josh went a little further, he thought of the root for these subconscious moves. Mr. Vern wasn’t an angry person, but he was frustrated. So, why the aggression? There was also a sense of sterility in the response. Perhaps Mark truly believed that all of his work could be done here, in the safety of the Headquarters, like a hermit scientist. The fact of the matter was, and Josh knew this better than anyone, cases like this were solved on the streets, with witnesses, and relatives, and lovers. People, with emotions, were how monsters were caught, not robot-people like Mark, Josh thought.

“Well, firstly, J.L says so. You gave up your right to turn down requests by him when you took that badge,” Josh joked. His right leg came up to rest on his left knee. “Secondly,” he continued, “there’s an almost completely fresh crime scene to look at. I also have some leads I want to follow up on.” Josh took the leather-bound note pad from his jacket pocket and set it on the table. He glanced over at one of the files Mark had open on the table, it was of Margery Plimpton. She was a florist in Albany, New York, decapitated by an incredibly sharp weapon. Her tongue had been removed, her shaved head inserted into her bisected torso, from which most of her internal organs had been surgically removed. A tragic case, now a little more than 3 years old. Josh had made the controversial discovery that the decapitation was done with a katana, or the legendary “samurai sword”. What has been so worrisome concerning the Buffalo Butcher murders is the expansion of its bourn. Not only did the killers range expand, but his skill sets and signatures changed as well.

The first five murders in the killers repertoire were telling of his ambition, his scholarly dedication to details. The condition of the victims were almost exactly the same (all limbs separated from the body, vital organs removed, and hung from the ceiling as they would be in a meat freezer). What stuck out to Josh was that the victims were not all the same, as serial killers seem to prefer. There were three women, one a Hispanic lady, and two men, one Black. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the synthetic definitions of a serial killer, because everything changed thereafter. The murders became more complex, more unique, and far more decadent. The first five victims reeked of a self-loathing, self-evident amateurishness, as well as a sense of wanting to escape that. And he eventually does, to the FBI’s dismay. The only way the FBI was able to connect the cases was because of J.L’s extraordinary Investigative skills. J.L noticed the similarity between the signature bisection of the victims, the exploratory splitting of the subject.

Josh wanted to know what Mark was thinking, he needed to hear anything that Mark found valuable. “So, what do you think? My profile was in there, so you know how little I know about him. Do you think you have any insight right now?” Josh placed the pen he held to the paper, he’d need to take notes while the professor spoke.

---

Green looked up to Wakefield as he entered the small office. He respected Wakefield’s certainty, his determination, his instinct, so sharp as it was. Green wasn’t a particularly good leader, but men like Wakefield assured that he looked like one. Mitchel was a dull witted man, a little slow, he peered through his glasses at the profiler in front of him. He pursed his lips and thought on Wakefield’s words.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Green finally said. “I assumed you’d need to do that anyway. I wanted to do a quick briefing. Please, sit.” Green fumbled with loose papers on his desk and finally produced a file. “Firstly, you’ll be on the plane with another group of FBI agents, special agents apparently. J.L is sending them to New York on very serious matters. I thought you should like to know, don’t expect any support from them. The lead investigator in this case,” there was a long pause then Green mumbled something under his breath, he glanced at the list next to his desk, “Gerald Yun. He just got here, a few hours ago. He wasn’t at the crime scene this morning, I just transferred the case over to him. Your expertise will be invaluable to him, I’m sure. Consider him your partner from now until the case is solved. Ah, speaking of…” Green motioned to the middle aged Chinese man who’d just walked up to Green’s door. He spoke briefly with Kaily and then entered.

“Morning Mitchel,” Yun said curtly, he walked past Wakefield to the coffee maker on Green’s desk and poured the contents into his mug.

“Gerald,” Green responded, he didn’t seem bothered by Gerald’s familiarity. “This is Agent Wakefield, Thomas Wakefield.”

Gerald turned from the machine toward his new partner with a tired smile, he extended his hand as he sat in the seat near Thomas, “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard about you around the office.” There were untold truths in Gerald’s words, he’d heard strange things, specifically. But, Thomas’ notoriety was far more than just his strangeness, among the gossip was stories of his Sherlock Holmes-like demeanor. The phone rang in the office and it shook the briefly quiet room, Green answered.

“Let me ask you something. How do you connect pieces of information, loose strands of subconscious behavior, and create a profile from that? Is there a secret?” Yun asked Wakefield quietly as Green spoke gently on the phone. Green interrupted before Wakefield would have a moment to respond. He held out the file he had on his desk to Gerald, signaling him to take it, then hung up the phone. “The transport to the airfield is downstairs. Have fun, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Gerald took the file from Green’s hands, stood and said, “Yes, sir. I’ll check in on the twelfth hour.”

Gerald then left the room, expecting Wakefield to be in tow. As the two made their way down the pristine hallway toward the elevators which would take them to the main lobby Gerald checked the file he’d been given. In the elevator Gerald turned to Thomas.

“What an intense case? Completely brutal. Do you think they met up to have sex? We really need to find out more about this girl. If she isn’t a prostitute, how the fuck did this happen?”

[Deamonbane]

Therein lay the problem. This wasn't some sick med student wanting to indulge in the forbidden fruit of live research, whether or not the victim was willing. It was difficult to pinpoint. He shuffled through the papers once more, his eyes focused. All of the bisections had occurred post mortem, like an afterthought, something to keep the people that might be investigating the case guessing over the why. What Mark wanted to know was the how. The bisection generally never left much evidence of just what had actually killed the victims. If the 'work of art' was used to cover something up, could he have been looking at this all wrong?

He tilted his head. It was possible. Marginally thought the chance was, maybe he was looking at something else entirely. The FBI could spend millions of dollars worth in man-hours, equipment and investigation hunting down a serial killer when it could very well be just a particularly vicious band of organ traffickers. There were organs missing from most of the bodies, but what had him mainly holding back on that theory was the fact that sometimes, instead of organs there were pieces and bits of flesh missing, like the flanks, thigh muscles, chest, etc. Those wouldn't be used for transplants. He sighed. He needed some fresh data, something to build up on. These files, informative though they were, were twisted and warped through each investigator's point of view, and thus the only insightful bits were the pictures. There might be ideas in the reviews of the case, but again, the chances were minimal. He would look into them after he had poured over the pictures.

He looked up, slightly annoyed. Josh was still here? He went over what the young an had said. Oh. Okay. He nodded," It would prove to be insightful to look into a fresh crime scene. I haven't looked into the Psychological profiles yet, Josh, but I plan to. There may be some ideas linked between each case, and with the skill of putting a jigsaw puzzle together without having scene the original picture, I might be able to build off of it," He picked up all of the pictures which he had already separated to one side, placing them in a briefcase, and then he put in the profiles by each of the profilers, of which Josh was one, and put them in the briefcase as well. If he needed any more from the coroners' observations, he would ask them to send hi a copy to his email. Most of what was relevant to catching the killer had been hidden in the bisections anyways.

"What time does our plane leave? I need to pick up some items at home."

[The New Yorker]

Quantico, Virginia

Josh’s attention hung on Marks words like a baby bird’s does his mother’s mouth, searching for that scrap of meat, somewhere. He didn’t read the profiles, then he made an analogy.

Was this guy, in any way, normal? Josh thought.

Josh much appreciated Mark’s teachings during his early years in the bureau. He would defend “Mr. Vern” from all the bashing he’d get outside of class. People complained about all sorts of things, here and there. Everyone knew he was a gifted person with a penchant for teaching his gifts, but he was inexcusably hard to work with, that’s what everyone said. Josh would talk about how good his grades were in the class, showing them as a testament to the teacher’s ability. He would describe how easily Mr. Vern would extract the essence of a question in class and create the “answer you never even knew you wanted”. Everyone who’d worked with Mr. Vern on anything from a case to an essay, stated very easily, and now at the end of their interest in the topic, that “you just had to be there”.

Josh understood that perfectly now. Maybe, Josh thought, he was just a good student after all. As Mark packed his things, Josh, with frustration, jammed his notepad into the briefcase he’d brought with him.

When Mark asked his question Josh closed his eyes. He felt slightly overwhelmed. He didn’t really know where Mark lived, and he wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get to the airbase. “Okay,” Josh finally said, composed. “Go home and get your things. I hope you live pretty close because I need you in the Military airbase north of here in 25 minutes. J.L wants us in the air by—“ Josh looked at his watch, “11:30. We’re not the only passengers.” Josh stood from the chair and lifted his briefcase. “I’ll call ahead,” he said, “to warn them that you’ll be coming in a civi car. But, that badge might do the trick anyway.”

Josh started for the door, then he heard J.L’s words ringing in his ear. He needed to build a connection, and storming away wasn’t the way to do it. He turned quickly, looking at the ground and pointing with his index, “You should join me in the elevators” he said with a bit of nervousness and some false coolness.

[Deamonbane]

Josh's tone made Mark pay attention, an eyebrow raising," What, I wasn't exactly expecting to be brought in on this job when I came into work this morning. I need to get some clothes, washing items, etc," He picked up his briefcase," Plus, I need to feed my cats," Who'da thunk it? Mark was a catperson," Make arrangements for them to be taken care of while I'm away," He turned to Josh," By the way, how long will that be again?" He pressed the button for the elevator," You never did say," He pressed the button again. How long did these things take anyways? He spent as much time as he could looking at the red numerals ticking down to where they were, looking at the lights, the floor, the fire escape, the fire alarm. Anything but the man in front of him.

He had a condition. Looking at someone told him about them. Small details. New Hairspray, cologne, the lack to put on deodorant or putting on too much of it, those were details he couldn't avoid, as much as he couldn't avoid inhaling. But they were insignificant. Distraction, or too much attention, when preparing for the day, how much they noticed about themselves during the day. It said small things, painted incomplete pictures. Added to visual details, small twitches of the eyes, around the mouth, sweat on the face, hands, anything spoke of why they were distracted or paying too much attention. Josh reeked of aftershave, but not much of cologne or deodorant. He was clan shaven, but small details at the back of his jaw had been overlooked.

He looked away," Yeah, getting on the elevator is..." A bad idea? It was. His condition involved taking on the various details of the people his agile mind studied and taking on their minds in a way, thinking how they would think, and therefore acting like they would act. The doctors that examined him advised him that getting too close to someone would cause him to lose his identity to theirs. So was going down in small steel box with another person a bad idea?

"You're right, of course," He pressed the button of the elevator, finding the small crack along the wall incredibly interesting as the bell dinged and the door opened. Mark indicated for Josh to enter first.

[The New Yorker]

Quantico, Virginia

Cats eh? Josh could see it, he was a sort of lonely guy with a soft side, he needed affection from somewhere. Mark seemed really anxious, more anxious than usual, as they approached the elevator. He tapped the button repeatedly, Josh just waited. He took his Blackberry from his pocket and clicked it to life. He opened a message and began texting someone, it was a potential love interest.

Diego: Are you going to be able to meet me tonight?
I found your shirt
Josh:No srry
I have to go to NY tonight… again. I miss you
Diego: It’s okay.
Go save the world
Josh: I’d rather be with you
Diego: That’s not true, and I don’t want it to be

Josh didn’t answer back, when he lifted his head he was standing in the elevator, heading down to the first floor. Two other men, square-jaws, were in the elevator too, they seemed very serious. Josh put his phone away and looked at Mark, he was just as uncomfortable as before, perhaps moreso. Josh felt bad about his conversation on the phone. The fact was, Diego was right. This is what Josh wanted, the thrill, the authority, the gun. The elevator doors finally opened and Josh was happy, mostly for Mark. He looked like he was ready to explode. The couple walked through the lobby to the main entrance and then outside, where a caravan of black SUV’s were waiting for them. A tall, well dressed man stood in front of one waiting just as patiently as the vehicles. Josh made his way down the stairs toward the caravan, he spoke quietly to Mark. “Go home in your car, meet us at the airfield. Remember, 30 minutes.” Then Josh approached the tall man waiting.

“Are you Joshua Rodriguez?” Thomas asked, “Thomas Wakefield,” he said smartly.

Josh eyed the man, he’d heard of him. Another nut psychologist. He shook hands with the man, smiled. “Yes, nice to meet you. You’re going to be on the flight with us right?”

“Yes, I’m happy to be in such notable presence.” Thomas said with a warm smile.

Josh opened the car door and stepped in, sat down. Thomas followed him in, “I’d like to speak with you about your case” he said as he stepped in.

“It’s confidential,” Josh said straightly. That was something he knew for certain about these psychology types, if you knew something they didn’t, they were intent on wresting it from you. Especially when concerning a case, and most especially when concerning those who worked in the FBI. The caravan set off down toward the airfield, each one of the four SUV’s filled with agents heading on one case or another.

[Kentsukan]

If Robert had to name one thing he enjoyed about New York, it was the food stands. The crowds, noise and traffic congestion were awful. And without Central Park, he was afraid he might forget what greenery looked like. But New Yorkers did not screw around with their food stands. New York was not named "The Big City" lightly: it was humongous in both size and history. Land purchased from Indians for a price that should have been considered robbery. But that was history. What was the present was the bratwurst on a toasted bun with mustard and sauerkraut. It was cheap and delicious, like most street food stands he had encountered. The only bad mark in an otherwise boring day was when the vendor had looked at him strangely. "Hey. Weren't you that guy who the news was fussing about in that robbery gone wrong from a year ago?" "No idea," he replied dully as he took his first bite of food, "you must have me mistaken for someone else." That was his typical response to the question, one that was thankfully being asked less frequently. The warm sausage had heated his hands up and his belly as he walked the final few blocks to his apartment.

It was on the twelfth floor, two bedrooms and two bathrooms. There was not much space, and the neighbors above made noise, but it was high enough to avoid the sound of street traffic, which was worse than stomping. White walls and leather furniture, with thick, dark curtains to keep the light out. A maid came by once a week to keep things clean. There was no television in the living room, but there was one in his room, which only had a bed and a nightstand with a lamp. He kept his diplomas framed in the second bedroom as a computer room, music practice room and guest room: the couch could be converted into a bed space. It was simple, but it was his. And with the view of towering buildings built in varying decades and centuries of American history, Robert felt trapped. His bars were made of concrete, and his barrier was his apartment. He had told them he could continue working: a few silly migraines lasted only for ten minutes. But Jay, his case worker, and the FBI in general thought otherwise. A pension to live the rest of his life without doing a job he spent sixteen plus years preparing for. "Fuck him," Robert had grunted at his mental cursing after swallowing his last bite of hotdog and tossing the wax paper and holder into the trash, "and his bureaucrats." He winced shortly afterwards, and shook his head at his words. Money was money. He had a nice place to live in, and Jay was only following policy. Still, his fingers itched, and the sirloins he bought and butchered did nothing to help. The problem was not about the money at this point. It was the challenge, the puzzle that Robert craved. The lack of challenge that kept him awake and bored, despite his attempts to distract himself with fencing, television, and sex. It was an itch that was not easily ignored, but one that had to be forcibly smothered sometimes with a pillow, soft nightclothes, and warm sheets after a day of roaming, and letting sleep drown him in rolling waves and drag him to its dark, murky bottom.

Tonight he was visiting Dr. Peter Larsen to discuss notes from their work. They each took turns hosting, and the guest brought food, mostly in the form of meat and potatoes. He had opened the door, which was normal since it was unlocked during these nights. "Larsen! I brought food!" Instead of a greeting and a bid to come in, however, he was greeted with the foggy sight of a man with a distorted aura around him. He could not see his face clearly, or much of his features. But he did see the body on the floor, which was quickly abandoned as the stranger ran off. Without thinking, Robert had charged into the room, and soon was standing over the body of his colleague, pooling blood onto the carpet. Robert would not have recognized him if he hadn't seen him earlier that day. "Oh shit... Fuck!" He cursed out loud as he fell to the floor to check for vitals in his neck. He felt nothing. There was so much blood, he didn't know where to start, but realized his efforts were fruitless: Dr. Larsen was dead. Unknowingly, his actions caused the gun concealed by a vest he wore to be revealed. And that proved to be his undoing.

The first blow was to his head, he was certain. Just a brief, fleeting second of sharp, radiating pain before it evaporated to a fuzzy feeling. It caused him to fall on his side to the floor, the blow too jarring for him to react or move. Robert did not need a medical degree to know that he was just hit in the head very hard, along with the consequences: a possible concussion, and head hemorrhaging. He remembered that head wounds were always the bloodiest as his head continued to bounce into the floor. Was he still getting hit? His hearing was ringing and vision so fuzzy. He thought he saw a rod of some sort swing into view as it smashed into his ribs. Broken ribs, he thought passively and his breathing became shorter and sharper. He was starting to feel cold, and so, so sleepy. Was he dying? He wasn't sure. He felt like he was sinking into sand, with no resistance or care. Sleep, he thought, slow the blood flow. The world was beginning to fade away to nothingness and he was slipping through the fabric of reality. Cotton began to wrap around him like a cocoon, insulating him from the world. The last thought on Robert's mind was the Hippocratic oath.

"... Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God."

He awoke then, with a blood curdling scream and pain, soreness, so much soreness. His arms had clutched at his ribs and his head to nurse the pain. And yet, it seemed to subside to an itch. An itch similar to a scar. Itching at places that were wounded on his chart that he saw when he awoke a year ago in a hospital bed. "W-What is... What is--I don't... Oh God..." He could not sleep now. The meat must have had something strange in it, he thought as he slumped back against his pillow. Perhaps he would call Jay tomorrow. The dream had felt so real, after all.

But was it really?

[Deamonbane]

Everyone had their own demons. Mark had a habit of inheriting other people's demons, taking them onto himself to no benefit to the original carrier, like a disease. He scowled a bit, not looking as Josh received a message on his phone. He caught the body language in his peripheral vision though. The kid was twisting a bit, uncomfortable. No, it was something more than that. He was at war with himself, his heart battling with his heart of hearts.

Gee, that light over in the corner really was interesting, wasn't it? What he didn't need at all was to get his mind wrapped into an affair of the heart. He had never had those problems, but inheriting the problems would be something he didn't even want to begin to experience. He took a deep breath. His hands were sweating and starting to shake gently. He was running out of things to look at when the door of the elevator opened. Josh stepped out. Was he supposed to wave or...

The door closed.

Mark leaned his head back against the wall of the elevator, letting out am audible sigh, hands releasing one another as the elevator continued down to the underground garage. His hands stopped shaking before the door opened again and he moved out into the garage, moving quickly. Many of his students were still in the building, and there was a chance that they might not have gotten word that he was reassigned, or worse, they had and they had decided to ask him if they could tag along to accentuate their studies. The last thing he needed was a potential Butcher groupie. He sighed in relief as he reached his car, starting it quickly and getting out of the garage as soon as was legally possible, and was out on the road. Twenty minutes was it? He was home in five. He was greeted by a chorus of meows.

He set about assuring all of the cats that he wasn't going to be gone forever, all the while packing an overnight bag and putting foot in their bowls and calling his next door neighbor to come on over every day to give them food and water. He closed the door quickly behind him, quick enough to keep any of his kittens from escaping and moved back into his car, checking his watch on the way. He had ten minutes to get to the base. He broke... a handful of laws to get there in record time. He was challenged at the entrance, and he showed his badge to the guard," I'm expected," He said, cautiously avoiding eye contact with the guard.

Apparently Josh had gotten the message through. After only a cursory inspection of his badge, the guard waved, and the crossbar was lifted," They're waiting for you at hangar 14."

Great, Mark thought. Mommy issues, Hentai based fetishes, and a recent break up. He pushed the car into gear and moved forward.

[The New Yorker]

Brooklyn, New York
10:01 AM

Cars were useless in New York, so Robert had made sure to head out of his apartment an hour before his appointment. It took forty-five minutes for him to ride the subway and walk a few blocks down to the office of the Psychologist he was recommended by Jay: Dr. Dennis Shavleson. A PhD from Columbia, very respectable, and he came with numerous recommendations. Despite his background in medicine, Robert did not have much background in psychology, except for an introductory course he took when he was studying for his Bachelor's. The FBI knew their stuff, so he trusted that Dr. Shavleson was fully qualified. When he had stepped before the door, he had to pause. To shut his eyes, breathe, and absorb exactly what he was doing. He never thought he would need to go see a Psychologist. The idea was rational, but jarring. He didn't even know how one dressed to such an appointment, so he decided it was best to stick with what he knew. Formalities and good first impressions. He wore a light blue dress shirt without a tie, and the top button undone. He wore a pair of navy khakis, and black polished leather shoes. His watch was clasped to his wrist, and the time was about fourteen minutes before his appointment. His fingernails were well manicured and hands clean. And so, after examining himself and taking a moment, he turned the doorknob and made his way into the office building, checking to make sure he was headed up the stairs to the right place. After finding the correct office, he entered, and smoothed his hair out. He cleared his throat and nodded to the receptionist. "Hello. My name is Doctor Robert Bishop, I have an appointment in fourteen minutes with Doctor Shavleson. Do I need to fill anything out or confirm my health insurance?"

Marcy was ultimately bored the moment before Robert entered. She had just finished her third solitaire game of the day and was already planning for the next, but first, a text break.

She began talking to some teenage boy, or another, about some possible date, or another. She was just a teen herself, plucked from the impossibly youthful and optimistic halls of Stuyvesant. She was one of the many interns Dennis employed--for both professional positions and otherwise. Phillip was the other kind, a sick experiment in contagious psychopathy. Of course, no one, not even Phillip, could know all of this.

When Robert walked in the teenage receptionist quickly discarded of her phone and folded her hands, smiled warmly. She nodded along with Robert's words, "Yes, of course, Dr. Bishop, the doctor is expecting you." She grabbed a clipboard from the little table near her desk, and handed it to Robert. "Fill this out, and Dr. Shavleson should be with you by the time you're done."

There were all sorts of simple medical questions along with fields for insurance information. But there were different questions as well, most relating to personal history and psychological experiences. Marcy politely pointed to the row of chairs behind of Robert, set right in front of the heavy oak door to Dennis' office proper.

"Thank you." Robert carefully took the clipboard and walked towards the seats in front of the Psychologist's office to begin answering questions. The insurance information was simple, and he quickly wrote the necessary numbers down before working on his medical questions. "Medication allergies... None. Family medical history... Father died of heart attack. Personal medical history... Severe trauma sustained on ribs and cranium. Has resulted in semi-frequent migraines and a coma that lasted for one year. Here's the nasty stuff," he shook his head before lifting his eyes to the closed window of the office. Nothing to see, so he glanced back to the paper. "Psychological history. None. I don't know of anyone in my family with mental issues. What troubles me? Dreams... I suppose they are dreams. Horribly real dreams." "Reoccurring traumatic 'dreams'" was what he wrote for that section. "Frequency? Every night for the past week. Am I hallucinating? I don't think so. Hearing strange noises? I don't think so. I don't think I've been suffering panic attacks. This should suffice." With that, he signed and dated his medical history and rested the clipboard on his lap with the pen attached.

The door opened as quickly as Robert was finished. Phillip, hanging head, sullen eyes, shuffled through the reception area. He avoided eye contact with anyone in the room, most importantly Marcy. But he bid her farewell, nonetheless. "Bye."

One might have never known that they attended school together. "See you on Monday..." He was gone before she could finish her sentence.

Only moments later the door creaked open once more. Dennis emerged, his light clothing soaking in the sun from his left side which bathed the rest of the office as well. His ivory hair was smoothed back in waves. He smiled briefly when he recognized Robert.

It was dark the last time the two had met, just at the end of a particularly deserving transformation. He didn't expect him to look so good, so unchanged. It was almost infuriating, but Dennis remained composed, pulled on the reigns of his mania. Instead, he extended his well manicured hands, spoke in an even baritone. "Dr.Bishop, please come in." He stepped aside to let his victim, then and now, enter his office.

"Dr. Shavleson. I believe this is yours," Robert has nodded his head while walking to the man who had nearly beat him to death and caused the migraines that he suffered from. Of course, he did not recognize Dennis, and believed this to be the first time they had ever encountered each other. So while he felt nervous, he felt no more than that while walking into the deceptive Lion's Den. "I've heard excellent things about you. They said you were experienced in this sort of... Trauma." He finished his sentence while looking around, admiring his office, its furnishings, and its view. The view had caused him to smile briefly, fleetingly, as he stared out at the sun and the life outside it.

Dennis gently grabbed the clipboard as it was handed to him. He indulged in the moment as Robert passed, a covert sniff-something he'd been doing all his life. Dennis closed the door, "well, the sort of procedures used to treat such trauma are quite unique. I just so happen to have dedicated my entire PhD to it. Cognition recovery is a burgeoning field." The good doctor, clad in fine Italian, directed Robert to the balcony. Dennis quickly snatched the file he'd received that morning from Roberts mandatory stint with an FBI social worker, along with his journal from his desk atop the dias. "More vibrant and youthful minds than my own will do far more for it than I have."

Dennis joined Robert shortly after he sat and allowed a few moments of silence. He crossed his legs and set the file on the table between them. He opened his journal and drew his pen from his shirt pocket.

"So, I'd like to begin by asking you how you think I can help you. What are you expecting out of this?" Dennis finally got a good look. There were slight scars, most of them had healed rather well. It was strange really, he'd hit him so hard. Dennis smiled, he could practically feel the prybar in his hands. He could still hear the crunching skull, the stifled, retarded whimpers. What a primal party that was!

"I may be interested in reading through it. I do not have the proper background, but it does sound like an interesting read and subject." He had followed Dennis to his desk and sat down, his fingers lacing together and eyes staring at the file on his desk. "I know what happened to me. I read my chart after I had awoken from my coma, so the severity of the injuries and the manner in which they were caused in my dream were not a surprise. I don't know who did this or why, and quite frankly, I don't care at this point, as horrible as that may seem. I don't know why I am suddenly remembering this, or dreaming about it. One of those things will be easier to figure out than the other, so my chief concern would be to stop these nightmares. Or at least get them to a point where I can sleep restfully at night. After that, I am not sure. I suppose it will depend upon how this progresses."

Dennis was a consummate professional, his pleasures were kept to a mild purr somewhere in the darkness of that foul cavern, his mind. Nightmares? How accurate were they? Did he know the exact events? All of this was too inquisitive, of course, Dennis knew that. Normal people were so paranoid. “You say you have nightmares. Could you describe them?”

That was the voice, even and sure. It was a motion for intent, oldest trick in the book, but Dennis had discovered ages ago that, a patient, once confronted with the play, is presumed to follow it. It was a bit like prestidigitation, what he’d done; or, perhaps prestidigitation was a great deal like psychology. Probably the latter.

"I was going to a colleague's home for our weekly case study. Dr. Peter Larson--you may have heard of him. One of us would host, the other brought food, and it was his turn to host so I had brought food. I walked in and saw my friend on the ground. Someone was standing over him, but that Shadow was distorted." Robert's face frowned then, as he remembered. His voice was even and neutral, as he rattled off details of his own near death. "The Shadow ran off. I ran into the room to check for Dr. Larson's vitals. There was too much blood loss, but I had to be certain. That's when the Shadow struck--on my head first. My head was thumping into the ground, so I know that's where it was hitting. But that was my only indication, because I couldn't feel the pain. I think I saw a grey bar as his weapon. Everything was beginning to fade to darknes as I slipped into unconsciousness, where it consumed me. The course of events never changes; it's just a repeat of the same thing over and over again. It seems... Overwhelming." His hand had raised to the side of his head where scars peaked out from under his hairline to scratch at them with a fingertip, as if the memory had stirred them in some way. If his head was shaved, angrier, larger ones would be visible. The vain side of Robert was glad he still had a full head of hair to hide them. Baldness was not a trait in his family, and he was grateful to his genetics for it. They itched on occasion, when the weather changed, but that was mild in comparison to the migraines, which left him clutching his head in agony. The worst injury he had taken away from that confrontation.

Dennis remembered his actions with a cool melancholy. Robert referred to him as a shadow, Dennis wondered if it was because of the fuzziness of his memory or a credit to his own stealth skills. He’d had years of experience hiding his noises and motions from people, he’d read extensively on the techniques. It’s always hard to be sure whether those lessons were soaking in until you tried to use them. He knew that his abilities with a crowbar were up to snuff, Robert’s testimony said nothing of his other skills, however. It’s hard to derive objectionality from confused, half-forgotten accounts. The most fabulous thing about Dr. Larson’s apartment, and it was fabulous in many ways, was the sliding doors which separated the different parts. It was easy to get behind Robert and subdue him. When he was on the floor, reeling from the initial strike, Dennis was able to grab the crowbar, which he turned from crude metal pole to sophisticated instrument of death. Except, not really. This moment, as it stood, was an afront to that. Damn him! How dare he deny his transformation? Didn’t he know it was all a part of the plan? But, that’s why Dennis had worked so hard to get him here, after all. This was the beginning of the end for Robert Bishop, if Dennis had anything to say about it.

He pictured Robert naked, tied to the pyre on the shores of his consciousness, he was next.

Dennis was able to settle himself by the time it was his turn to speak. He didn’t miss a beat. “And, how do you feel when you awaken from these nightmares? Are you upset, scared, nervous?” He wrote a note down to remind himself of a question for later, ‘Real?’.

"I suppose upset. I was dying. My friend was dead. All these years of my life were about to come crashing down at the hands of the Shadow. It was so sudden. I couldn't even see properly." His eyes blinked at that mention. "He was beating over my parietal lobe. I was going to die at the hands of some stranger I had never known. I had hoped for better." He sighed at that and rubbed behind his neck. "But that is a luxury beyond my control. And I do not wish to take my own life." That question was always annoying. It reminded Robert of the psychologists in the media. Emotion was an experience caused by the release of certain chemicals. Every brain is slightly different, so every experience is different. It is only a general consensus that out a name to emotions of shared symptoms. But it was not his place to dispute, Dr. Shavleson was the expert, not him. "I can give you my medical charts if you do not already have them from that incident. I don't know how much the FBI handed you."

Dennis held back a chuckle. Robert was defensive, which might have served him better 8 months ago. He held back any reservations he might have made about Robert’s response. Mostly because he was spouting off one thing after the other, this man had quite a bit on his mind. “Not necessary,” Dennis responded respectfully, “I have all the information I need here.” he pat the file in front of him on the table. “Robert, would you mind if we went back to the nightmares? What can you tell about… this Shadow?” He feigned uncertainty. “For instance, why is he there?”

Robert leaned back in his chair at the mention of the Shadow to pop his spine back into a comfortable alignment. "I named him that partly because of his obscured identity, and partly in homage to Jung's Shadow. It seemed fitting. I never assigned a gender to him, but make seems appropriate. They told me he was there in a robbery attempt. But I don't know why he was there, nor did I guess. He was standing over Dr. Larson, perhaps in shock? Surprise because of my arrival? Triumph? It changed little, in my view, because that was the result. Perhaps he was a robber. Perhaps he wasn't. That is for them to decide." He never believed it was his job to interpret facts. Sure, some facts lead to certain conclusions, like the difference between a spur of the moment and an angry homicide. But that was his deduction, his reasoning. He could not tell a robber from a murderer without an M.O. But he could judge a death as a homicide. Justice was relative to his employer. Robert viewed himself as just a neutral third party.

Dennis nodded, he needed to focus a little to formulate a review of this latest information. It seemed as if the dream was steeped very much in reality, informed and driven by real events, some remembered and some by second hand evaluations. If it was created by some sort of psychosis, and perhaps as a symptom of an overarching disorder, he might have conceived a self-made reasoning. But there was none of that, this man remained very sane. “Can we discuss the circumstances under which you have the nightmares, in your environment? Do you have trouble sleeping beforehand? Do these migraines ever signal the arrival of an episode?” He made sure to speak in measured tones, not bunching up his questions but still keeping the flow of conversation.

Dennis wondered briefly if the FBI knew something they weren’t sharing with neither Robert nor himself. If so, this could all be a trap. But, there was no time for paranoia like that, it was senseless at this stage. But Dennis couldn’t help returning to that thought throughout the conversation, and it would likely persist throughout the rest of the day.

"I don't have trouble falling asleep, beyond the fear that it will happen again. I have had migraines occur afterwards, on a semi frequent basis. Of course I have also had them occur in the morning and the middle of the day. I don't think the frequency at which they occur has changed, but the timing very well may have." Robert rubbed his forehead gently as he spoke. "The hospital had warned me I may suffer from them before I was discharged."

Dennis and Robert spoke about the nightmares briefly thereafter, splintering eventually into casual chit-chat. Dennis learned about where Robert went to school, his career in Texas, and then eventually all about his stint in the FBI. Dennis checked his watch halfway through an interesting conversation about J.L to notice that it was a quarter past eleven, and their time was up.

“Well,” Dennis started, grasping the arms of his chair, “I believe that’s all the time we have for today. He stood, “It was a pleasure meeting you Dr. Bishop, I look forward to working with you further.” Dennis extended his hand to the unsuspecting doctor, his heart was beating at break-neck pace. He felt like he might explode of pure exhileration. There was so much more left to see, so much more left to feel.

It was an innocuous gesture, a handshake. An agreement, greeting, farewell, and sign of respect between two parties. Of course, the symbolism was far more sinister, and it was one Robert took no notice of, for no fault of his own. There was no way for him to know this was his assailant. This was simply the Psychologist, the one who was slightly questionable in efficiency and methodology, but otherwise trusted. After all, Robert kept repeating to himself, this was not his field. He needed to sit back, try to relax, and let the professional do his duty. Lying was out of the question, and so too was holding back, no matter how embarrassing or intimate the question.

A physician. A man for healing and the people. Sworn to Apollo, the God of the sun and medicine.

"It was a pleasure meeting you Dr. Shavleson. I look forward to continuing our work." With that cordial farewell and deceptive handshake, Robert turned and left the office, shutting the door behind him so he could deal with his payment and walk back to his home in the sun and shade of New York concrete.

---

Quantico, Virginia
11:28 AM

Josh leaned against one of the many black SUV’s parked in the hanger, his phone clasped in his hand. He was trying to think of a the perfect words for an email. He was feeling the pressure with this relationship and he felt an impending end if he didn’t call an audible. That’s when Mark’s car came down the tarmac, parked somewhere behind the hanger in the empty lot. As Mark walked up Josh headed toward the plane. Everyone was already on-board, Josh was visibly irritated, though the origin was indistinguishable. Especially since there was so much riding on his shoulders at this point. When that wide-eyed, perceptive kid came walking into Quantico, hoping against hope that he’d just get that damn gun, he had no idea that all this stress would come with the shiny badge. No training could prepare him to run a whole squad on a manhunt for an experienced serial killer. He channeled J.L, “Time to roll,” he said simply, a speck of consciousness hidden in the satire.

As the couple got on the jet the pilot was strapping himself into the cockpit. Josh tapped on the door frame to get his attention, gave a thumbs up, the pilot returned the affirmation. Thomas Wakefield stood as Mark entered the airplane, extended his hand for a handshake, smiling. He was clearly excited. “A pleasure to meet you Mr. Vern. Thomas Wakefield, BSU profiler. When I heard you left the classroom, well honestly, I was a little surprised.” He spoke quietly, “Perhaps we could compare notes, on our cases.”

Josh walked pass and sat in one of the two alcoves on the jet, he face a couple of agents wearing blue FBI jackets. “I already told you Mr. Wakefield, it’s confidential.”

Gerald Yun piped up from the bathroom, “Jesus, are you still asking about that?”

Thomas whipped around, a little uncredulous. “I don’t understand what’s the issue with throwing me a bone. I’m incredibly curious. Besides, it’s not like we all haven’t heard the rumors. Ritualistic post-mortem mutilation, verging on artistic. Harvesting of body parts. Stop me if I say anything off base.”

Gerald came from the bathroom, fixing his belt, as Thomas sat down in the opposing alcove. Gerald sat with his new partner, “You’d think you’d be satisfied with our case alone. Isn’t that brutal enough for you?”

“It’s not about the brutality, it’s about knowing. I just want to know.” Thomas said, seeming to give up the fight, if at least for now.