Chapter Text
The first poem Will wrote was on the back of a discarded grocery list.
To say it was the first poem he’d ever written was perhaps misleading— he’d put pen to paper and written words without a narrative before, he knew what it meant to rhyme array with delay and make it mean more than a superficial translation. These were poems brought to a teacher, sanitized and shown to an audience of his peers, thus stripped of any kind of authenticity. A boy who put effort into poetry brought to mind several conceptions of his character, none of which Will felt the need to bring to his classmates’ attention.
The first poem he wrote for himself was at the suggestion of Dr. Peck, a man whom Will was required to meet with twice a week, in an office that smelled like mothballs and stain remover. Dr. Peck had advised him to find an abstract way to express the feelings Will couldn’t put into words. Truthfully, he didn’t really have a problem vocalizing his feelings. He just didn’t feel like sharing them with anyone, let alone a man whose job was to tell NOPD if Will still had his head screwed on correctly.
Poetry had been just one of Dr. Peck’s suggestions, but Will never really liked painting, singing or, god forbid, interpretive dance . He didn’t need to buy new materials, arrange for space or time, or really do much of anything he wasn’t already doing. Injury leave had left him with an abundance of free time, which he filled by reading and rereading classics that had previously been collecting dust under his desk. Occasionally, he left his apartment to get food, or to sit on the steps in front of the apartment complex until he got bored. New Orleans was a beautiful city, but after three years of living there, Will sort of felt like he’d gotten the gist.
It was after a trip to the Jackson’s down the street, far later than most people did their shopping, that Will eyed the little yellow paper that fell to the counter. Milk, eggs, tortilla chips, bread, jerky, granola bars . It probably wasn’t long enough to warrant being written down, but Will had a tendency to forget things, and he really didn’t want to make two trips when just walking down the block was enough to leave him exhausted.
If asked, Will wouldn’t have been able to say what made him pick up the pen that sat beside his laptop. He was tired, almost chronically, but his fingers jumped with a manic energy as he thumbed the list, clicking his pen over and over as he stared down at the blank page. For the past two weeks he’d been dedicated entirely to distraction; he could admit this to himself. He understood the neurology of trauma, how his brain tried to protect itself by shutting away the fear and throwing away the key. It seemed almost trivial; his brain had spent the last twenty-eight years actively making his life a living hell, and now it wanted to save face?
Dr. Peck said he needed to think about it. This, Will also understood. He’d read the neatly designed diagrams and he’d seen the poorly-scripted tv programs: the first step to conquering a problem is admitting there’s one to begin with . The pain meds made him tired, but more pressingly, Will was tired of not thinking about it. He was tired of feeling its presence, tired of feeling its eyes on the back of his neck like it was waiting for an opening. So few things in Will’s life were entirely under his control, and somehow, armed with his pen and the notion of artistry, it felt like he was facing it on his own terms. It was this special brand of whimsy that allowed him to close his eyes, and for the first time, allow himself to truly think about it.
The smell was the first thing that came to him. He could still smell it when he cracked an eye open and considered the structure of a poem. They didn’t always have to rhyme, right? They could just be fragments strung together, like the flow of thoughts themselves. It smells like the coast. He wrote, before frowning and crossing it out.
The smell of the coast
And gasoline
The next thing was the sound. It had been nighttime, but nighttime in New Orleans was the furthest thing from quiet.
The sounds of joy mix like spice
With the sounds of fear
Will had known he was going to run the second their eyes met. It had felt trivial to shout “NOPD,” and almost like a joke to say “don’t move.” He was gone before Will had even opened his mouth, shoving bystanders aside to run down the nearest alley.
His mind is not his own
Nor is his money
And he runs because his body
is all he has left
The man had cornered himself. It was almost anticlimactic how quickly Will caught up to him, not from his own speed but by the poor decisions of his target. Will watched him assess his options through a mind addled by cocaine, and it was no surprise when Will saw the glint of street lights reflect off steel. “Drop your weapon,” he ordered, raising his gun the way he’d been trained.
A cornered animal
Cannot be blamed for using its claws
The man was fast, faster than Will could have accounted for, and the knife was buried in his shoulder before he had the chance to aim. Will couldn’t remember the sound he made, or the feeling of dropping to his knees. He remembered his partner apprehending the man, although how she had gotten him to the ground and handcuffed was a bit hazy. He remembered the paramedics tending to him, and he remembered telling them he was fine, really, that he just needed to give his report and go home. He hadn’t been able to go home for a while, but that was fine too, because they got the guy in the end, and Will got workers comp.
Will swallowed, and blinked down at the lines written in handwriting he hadn't bothered to make particularly legible. He read it once, and then twice, then felt the deep sinking dread that comes with the knowledge that he was going to vomit.
The grotesque thing that shared the apartment with him began to laugh and laugh, and Will could hear it loud and clear even with his hands clamped tight over his ears. Oh Will, it cooed, and he tasted bile on the back of his tongue. You’ll need to lie to yourself better than that if you want to play the part of Will Graham again.
The truth scraped against Will like broken glass, and he felt viciously and utterly foolish for thinking he could side-step it so easily. This had been what he’d avoided so doggedly for weeks, and he had invited it readily to his table, as if he could have possibly been more prepared with a piece of paper and a little black pen that came in a pack of six.
The truth laughed again, and Will took no satisfaction in crumpling up the grocery list and throwing it swiftly in the garbage.
Will was out of breath before he even opened his eyes.
The nightmare was burned into the backs of his eyelids, but faded as he blinked, like the afterimage that comes from staring into the sun. His body trembled, drenched in sweat and achingly cold. There was an uproar of sound, and it took a moment for Will to accept it as coming from his dogs and not a remnant of his subconscious.
His little pack was crowded around the front door, barking loud enough that Will almost couldn’t hear the knocking from the other side. Shakily, he got to his feet, and the dogs parted for him as he made his way to the front. Through the crack he opened in the door, he squinted harshly at the three men on his doorstep. “Yes?” He asked, throat dry and harsh from sleep.
“You Will Graham?” Asked the man in front, clearly the leader in whatever exchange they were about to have.
Will opened the door further, slotting his shin into the space Buster was desperately trying to wiggle through. “Who’s asking?”
The man reached into his pocket, and produced a badge. “Jack Crawford, FBI. We’d like to ask you some questions about an incident last night. May we come in?”
No matter how hard he blinked, Will couldn’t seem to shake the haze of sleep settled over his brain. “Alright,” he conceded after a long moment. At the click of Will’s tongue, his dogs obediently fell back, their tails stiff and twitching as they watched strangers encroach on their territory.
There were several things that required addressing, and after a moment Will concluded the most pressing was just how visibly soaked his clothes were. After awkwardly depositing the agents on his couch, he grabbed the first clean clothes he found and retreated to the bathroom to change.
The bathroom mirror confirmed Will’s suspicions that he looked about as groggy as he felt, which was only mildly remedied by washing his face and donning a dry Henley. He allowed himself a moment of examination, staring back into his cloudy blue eyes and bracing his arms against the vanity. There were FBI agents in his house. This could go very poorly, depending on what they wanted from him, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be cowed in his own home.
The beginnings of a headache stirred behind his eyes, and after a second of debate Will grabbed some Ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet. He swallowed two with a handful of water from the sink, and took a fortifying breath before reentering the living room.
Agent Crawford seemed preoccupied with Harley, Will’s pitbull mix. Her tongue lolled as he scratched the scruff of her neck, his smile pinched and awkward on his face. The two other yet-unnamed agents had their heads ducked together, muttering something Crawford apparently didn’t care to acknowledge.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?” Will offered stiffly, because he was supposed to.
“No, thank you,” Crawford replied, right as the older of the two agents said, “Water would be great, actually.” This earned him a harsh glare from Crawford, but Will acquiesced easily enough. The dogs crowded his ankles as he shuffled to the kitchen, procuring a glass of ice water and ignoring whatever words he heard from the living room.
“You said there’s been an incident?” Will ventured once he placed the glass and a coaster on the coffee table.
“Two men were murdered in White Marsh last night.” Jack Crawford spoke lowly and precisely, like saying the wrong word would set off an unseen bomb hidden inside Will. “Their corpses were mutilated, and meticulously displayed. The FBI hasn’t made an official statement, but we believe this was the work of the Chesapeake Ripper.”
Will had no idea what expression he must have been making, but Crawford allowed the information to absorb before he said anything else. “...Huh,” Will said, once he identified his main reaction as confusion. “Okay.”
“You’re familiar with the name?”
“The Chesapeake Ripper? I actually studied him briefly, back when I was getting my behavioral science degree,” Will’s voice took on a mumbling quality towards the end, the cogs in his head turning involuntarily.
Crawford looked like he wanted Will to ask him what that had to do with him. “What does that have to do with me?” Will asked, because he could be a good sport when he wanted to.
“If you’re that familiar, then you know the Ripper creates tableaus from his kills. Recreating iconography, famous classical works, that kind of thing.” At this, Crawford made a gesture to the younger of his companions, who dutifully placed a folder in his waiting hand. From the folder Crawford pulled a glossy photo, placing it on the table and sliding it to Will with little fanfare.
The photo was not actually from the crime scene in question, as Will had expected, but rather a capture of a fresco. Although Will wasn’t familiar with the particular piece, the subject matter was one he recognized, even without looking in the bottom right corner, where “ St. Sebastian, Benozzo Gozzoli c. 1465 ” was written in red ink. The saint stood in peaceful surrender, surrounded by angels and executioners from his perch on a low pedestal. His bare torso was an artful pincushion of arrows, and his pained eyes looked heavenwards from within the halo that denoted his sainthood.
“This is the piece that the Ripper drew his inspiration from,” said Crawford. “The first victim was found placed on a tree stump in Cowenton Ridge Park, stripped with the exception of a loin cloth, and impaled thirty-five times by arrows.”
Briefly, Will’s eyes slid shut, feeling out the edges of second-hand cruelty like prodding a bruise. “And the second?” He asked, although he didn’t need to. He already saw the props in the scene, knew the outline of the design, but he needed Crawford to say it.
“The second victim was sitting in a lawn chair facing the first victim, surrounded by Heineken bottles and holding a carton of Reds. Death was determined to be from blunt force trauma to the back of the head.” The information hung in the air like an awful stench, thick and still and Will could see it, every drape of cloth and skin and achingly deliberate death.
...Sebastian begged with his whole heart
Not for the arrows to stop, but for someone to see
See, for the love of God, see how I bleed for you
And like a tree in the forest, no one does
No one but a man on his fifth Heineken
Who might say, “Jesus, friend, someone sure took the piss out of you”
And if they meet eyes over the cherry of an unfiltered
And if Sebastian is seen
(And he is seen)
And if it is the closest either of them come to Grace
Then God doesn’t need to know
Sainthood is ultimately decided by the sinners
It wasn’t what Will would consider his best, or even his favorite poem, but it was the most popular. It would be the first to come up in a Google search of his name (or so Beverly tells him, he never bothers to check), right next to the Amazon page for his anthology and a Twitter account he never used.
“I didn’t go anywhere last night, you can check my car’s GPS,” Will said wryly.
“You’re not a suspect, Mr. Graham. The Ripper has essentially drawn a huge arrow in the sand pointing directly to you, and we would be remiss if we didn’t follow up on it.” Crawford leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and trying his best to catch Will’s gaze. “Do you have any idea why the Ripper would reference your work like this?”
Will had to keep himself from laughing. “Seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it?” And it did; Will didn’t think you needed to have to have an empathy disorder to understand a message. “The Ripper wants to be seen.”
“Seen by you?”
Will did not need to ponder this, although he hesitated before he spoke. “Yes,” he admitted. Jack Crawford didn’t need to know just how often his work caught the attention of more unsavory characters. “I imagine the Ripper believes he can find a kindred spirit in me.” There was a nudge at Will’s foot, and he smiled down at Buster before hauling him onto his lap. “He’s in for a disappointment, of course,” he grunted, shifting the little dog until they were both comfortable. “Most of the poems I write aren’t even about me.”
“So what now? Do you believe the Ripper will come after you next?”
The Ibuprofen wasn’t working nearly fast enough, and Will blamed the persistent ache for his snappishness. “I have to admit I’ve read up on you before, Agent Crawford. For the head of the BAU you seem to be seeking a lot of answers from a civilian.”
If this surprised Crawford, he didn’t show it. Will had to give him props for that. “I’m not asking you for answers, Mr. Graham, I’m asking for your perspective.” He splayed his hands, offering his palms to the ceiling. “You aren’t a layman, you told me yourself that you have a behavioral science degree, in which you specifically studied the Ripper. You may have valuable insight, and I am not going to let a chance at catching him pass us by.”
Buster made contented snuffling noises as Will silently scratched behind his ear. After a tense moment, he glanced at Crawford and sighed. “No. The Ripper is not going to come for me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The Ripper is an artist above all else. He covets the classical masters, he seeks to create beauty in its rawest form. He wouldn’t deprive the world of art, even my humble contribution, by killing me.”
“He could kidnap you,” Crawford countered.
This gave Will pause, but he shook his head after a second. “The Ripper believes he has found an equal, or at least the potential for one. He’s going to want to see what I do, and he’ll want it to be on my own terms. Kidnapping me would be-“ Will smiled crookedly, smothering it as quickly as it came. “It would be too forward .”
An eyebrow rose on Crawford’s forehead. Next to him, the younger agent was hastily scribbling on a small notepad, the older occasionally pointing at it and whispering into his ear. “You seem very sure of his motives,” Crawford said after a pregnant pause, and Will felt his shoulders stiffen.
“I am.”
When Will didn’t elaborate, Crawford asked, “Does it have to do with your empathy?” The glare Will shot him was instinctive, and a couple dogs that sensed his tension gathered around his chair. “You’re not the only one who can read up on people, Mr. Graham.”
“Might as well call me Will, if you’re so goddamn familiar.”
Crawford’s hands came up. “It’s just due diligence, Will, I mean no offense by it. What I’m saying ,” he gave Will a look that made whatever retort he had die on his tongue. “Is that if you say that’s what the Ripper will do, I believe you. I do.”
Chewing the inside of his cheek, Will turned his glare to an indistinct point on the wall. “Right.”
“It wouldn’t be a problem to set up a safehouse for you, Will,” Crawford said. “He could be watching you, even if you’re right about him leaving you be.”
Will took several breaths, his agitation soothing significantly faster with the added weight of a dog in his lap. “It wouldn’t matter to him either way; he isn’t that invested in me,” he said eventually. “This is the equivalent of ordering a drink for someone you’ve been eyeing across the bar.”
“What kind of bars have you been going to?” muttered the younger agent. The older agent whispered something Will couldn’t hear, causing them both to snicker.
Crawford didn’t look away from Will when he said, “Price, Zeller, could you please do me a favor and wait in the car.”
Properly admonished, the older agent cringed. “Sorry, we’ll-”
“ The car, ” Crawford bit out, and the agents were gone within seconds. “I apologize for them, they were the only agents available on such short notice. They don’t usually do a lot of field work.”
“Forensics?” Will guessed. “I get it. Easy to forget how to behave when the strangers you’re normally around are too dead to care.”
Crawford’s smile was wry and a bit twisted. “You’re sure you don’t want a safe house?”
“If he can make it past six dogs and a rifle I think he deserves to get to me.”
As far as jokes went, it wasn’t his best, and Crawford didn’t laugh. “I’ll issue an agent to keep watch on your property. And I’ll leave you my number, I expect you to call me the second you get wind of anything.”
Will accepted the offered business card, half ready to crawl back in bed despite having gotten up less than ten minutes ago. “Thanks for stopping by.”