Chapter Text
A cardinal skittered overhead, chirping from a rickety branch and scattering a cluster of leaves down upon the man-and-canine-made track. It was a nice day, Will supposed. Wet earth shrank beneath his boots and shoots had risen from the new growth to get a taste of the sun. The sun, blistering in its heat, used to make him queasy and desperate for the familiarity of the shade and its darkness. Now though, it was welcomed. The weakness had long settled into his bones, it was the sun that made him feel human, or as close to it that Will could ever feel. He was taken by days like these, like a moth that kept getting too close to the flame, burning its wings for the feeling of cradling warmth.
Will’s pack bounded through the brush, sniffing and pawing the undergrowth, alert for anything of interest. The path was familiar to them, but exciting all the same. It wasn’t long before they reached the creek, lax in its temperament but lively enough to draw the dogs' attention and entice them into leaping into the body of water and splashing each other eagerly. Will had briefly considered bringing his fishing equipment but had dismissed it just as quickly, today he was content to sit and eat while his friends dipped their toes and soaked their fur up to their elbows.
Halfway through his finger food (or drink, rather), lost in thought, Buster nuzzled his cheek. He whined for his attention, eying the packed chicken with the look of a red-headed vulture. He had fed them all before leaving but even dogs must have different metabolisms to one another.
“Hey boy, you want some?” He went to reach for the cold chicken he had packed in foresight, but felt something wet with a thick consistency on his other arm. He turned around and blinked, once, then again. He had blood smeared on both of his front paws. The sun had been so bright that he hadn’t even smelled it.
After assuring himself that Buster wasn’t injured, Will waded through the current, abandoning the rest of his meal (tucked away so any other vultures wouldn’t nose at it) and made his way down the overgrown trail. He imagined he’d find a carcass of prey or possibly a coyote — but the nagging in the back of his skull thought otherwise. It wasn’t so much intuition as it was behavioural knowledge. Buster was not one to leave animal carcasses alone that easily, he knew from experience. The trail led to a clearing he’d often find himself in, vast with an open sky where Will would watch the dusk settle into the night. It was a nice place, surrounded by towering trees that were more protecting than they were menacing. Today though, the clearing was not empty.
The design was beautifully grotesque. Will’s lungs seized and his chest clamped down on his heart. The woman, likely in her thirties, had been poised over a stone in the form of a weeping angel, her silken hair spread over the stone like black water and her abdomen had been slashed in a surgical smile. To further iterate the angel theme, her entrails had been slinged over her back. Her large intestines made up the bones of wings while her small intestines were cut to look like pale feathers.
Will’s curiosity temporarily won over his humanity, if you can call it that. He covered his sensitive nose and crouched before the woman. Her ribs had been pulled forward to expose her chest cavity and there was a void where her heart would have been. He recognized this art style, no, he knew it. He knew it intimately, through his lectures and his studies. Through countless hours of research and writing.
But this kill was different, so isolated and so alone. It served a specific purpose, a cog in the grand scheme of things. Dialing the number on his phone, he hoped the FBI would find it.
“What were you doing before you found him like this?” came a man’s gruff voice. Will had already walked his dogs the short way home, returning to the crime scene to be questioned.
“I was um, walking my dogs. A picnic.” Will focused his eyes on anything other than the man, the ‘anything’ being the dead body in the centre of the field. He vividly remembered meeting him at the Evil minds research museum, he silently hoped that would not become evidence of why Will Graham was secretly a serial killing vampire.
Jack took a step closer, a way to be intimidating no doubt. “Jack Crawford, I believe we met at the Evil minds research Museum’s opening.” Jack’s voice was demanding, like he was using a chisel to break an eggshell. After a moment of silence, Jack folded. “I was planning to run into you again, professor Graham, but it looks like you’ve sped up the process. I’d like your thoughts on this.” He gestured to the corpse.
Will raised a brow and huffed a laugh. “You want me to consult for the FBI? I’d call that desperation.”
“And I call that determination.” Came his loud retort, “Please, your thoughts. We haven’t yet identified the victim.”
Jack was a broad shouldered man, a bison who let his displeasure be easily known to the world. He was brash when he needed to be, but that was what got the job done. Will could tell that Jack had reached his position through sheer hard work, given that he was black American his strong sense of justice would’ve been amplified through decades of bigotry. He was good at his job, and even better at getting his way.
Will sighed, and like many others before him, he caved. “He’s mocking her. Angels are elegant and beautiful, she’ll be the same. A uhm singer or a dancer, opera, probably. She’ll have money and success.” He turned to the body then. “But you weren’t graceful, you did something impudent.”
Opportunity sparkled in Jack’s eyes. If there was anybody else listening, Will would’ve felt like a penguin being made to do ballerina. “And the killer?” Jack prodded.
Will smiled mirthlessly. “It doesn’t take an academy professor to know that this is the work of the Chesapeake Ripper. You’re a smart man, Jack, you already knew that. You just want me to profile him for you.”
Jack looked past him, into and above the trees where small clouds dotted the sky. “Walk with me, Will.” It was a request, not a demand. Will knew then that Jack needed help, he was weary with a crippling weight on his shoulders. Will just wasn’t sure he was the right person to try to alleviate it.
They walked along on the creek’s edge. The sun was still set high above the trees and the ground was freckled with warm light, but the presence of shade was a relief to Will. As much as he enjoyed the sun, the time spent with a new, unfamiliar person made him want to slink back into the comfortable shadows and regain his power over man. He was hungry and hunger made him irritable, he hadn’t gone through so much as a half of a pack of pig’s blood earlier because of what had happened.
“When I ask for profiles, I get a variety of answers. I’ve seen many men capable of many interpretations, but I'm interested in your interpretation, Will.” The way Jack said it was almost coaxing. If Will hadn’t been a fisherman he might’ve risen to the bait, finding the praise irresistible.
Will had remarkable self control for a vampire, but he found himself keeping his distance regardless. “The fact that you referred to him as a man tells me you already have an internal profile.” He replied coolly.
Jack scrunched his face, brushing away thistles that threatened his black pea coat. “Only the beginnings, you’re deflecting, Will.”
Will found himself taking inspiration from what he had written in various notebooks regarding the Ripper and other serial killers. “The Chesapeake Ripper considers his kills to be art. His paints? They’re pigs, pigs who he considers to be stains that should be wiped. He uhm, doesn’t need to do it. He isn’t compelled by uncontrollable desire. No no” Will smiled. “He will be a man with self control. He kills just because he can, and he will be well liked. He will fit in like a coiled snake camouflaged in the Amazon. He won’t be ordinary or average, his compassion to fine arts and intelligence will have landed him good income , you’re looking for somebody who defies all the surface signs of a killer.” He had been looking down at his feet while talking, a habit from his youth. He looked up to see Jack fixated on him like an archeologist who’d just found something magical whilst digging through dirt.
Jack stopped. “All that you just said, I want it written, and more. I want it on my desk by next week, and I’ll have Beverly Katz show you around the lab.” Will looked into his eyes, for the briefest moment. “You’ll save lives, Graham.” And with that he turned and walked back to the site, leaving Will wondering why he hadn’t just stayed home that day.
The walk home was brisk, Will was fatigued. He could feel the way his shirt brushed against his skin and how his hair tickled his brow. He needed to go home. He needed to eat. After that he’d shower and go to bed, he’d try to forget everything that had happened, though he imagined that he’d be unsuccessful.
Will had fallen ungracefully onto his sofa, a bottle of whiskey in hand. He was forever grateful that human food and beverages taste were not wasted on him like in folklore. He was clear headed, the alcohol just a dull ache in his frontal lobe. He had experienced a blend of emotions throughout the evening, and his vice was the only thing that could quiet them. It started with the seeping guilt. He was in shock when he saw the murder scene, but he wasn’t disgusted. He found that he felt no different than when he looked up at the photos on a projector, explaining them to a crowd he was talking at, not with. The realization of that weighed heavy, morality was not lost on him.
His phone vibrated, he flipped it over to see ‘Jack’ appear on the screen. He ran a hand over his face. He had no idea how Jack had gotten his number but he was too buzzed to think about it. He clambered to his feet before trudging to his bed, falling face first into the pillow. The second emotion that had come to him earlier was eager anticipation. He hadn’t liked this feeling, it was intrusive and unwelcome in the front of his mind so he knocked it back with a bottle. He had known that that kill was left there for him to find, and that had made him unbearably giddy.