Hannibal

[alcuin]

Alcuin Delaunay sat at a small metal table in a police interrogation room, his hands folded tightly in his lap to stop them from trembling. The fluorescent light above him buzzed faintly.

He had dressed carefully that morning, choosing a dove-gray cashmere sweater and black slacks—simple, elegant, deliberately unassuming. His usual style, though today it kind of felt like a costume. He tugged at the cuffs, his fingers brushing the faint smudge of charcoal still clinging to his skin from sketching the night before. He hadn’t been able to sleep and had tried to distract himself, but his drawings had turned out like every other attempt for the past three days: dark, jagged lines, incomplete.

He had barely stepped out of his car at the studio lot that morning when two detectives intercepted him. Their tone had been polite but firm—Could he come down to the station to answer a few questions about Anafiel Vessar?—and the polite veneer didn’t fool him for a second. He had agreed, of course; refusing would have only made things worse.

Alcuin rubbed his thumb along the edge of his palm, an old nervous habit, as he replayed his last moments at Anafiel’s house for the hundredth time. He had been careful, hadn’t he? The door locked behind him. The lights off. He'd already admitted to the police that he'd been there that day, and (convincingly, he thought) expressed his uncertainty about the exact time. Perhaps someone had seen him to pinpoint it more exactly, in a way that might be damning? A neighbor? A camera? Or even worse, had he left behind some damning piece of evidence in his panic? His fingerprints all over the house could be explained easily enough...

His breath hitched at the thought. You could have saved him, a small voice in his mind whispered, insidious and relentless. If you’d stayed—if you hadn’t run—he might still be alive.

Thank God, he thought, that was an actor. He thought he'd gotten through that interrogation pretty well, but they'd told him to stay put, that someone else would be coming to talk to him.

Comments

[alcuin]

Alcuin’s eyes followed the man as he entered the room. Nothing the expensive, well fitted suit, the careful movements. He was not a cop.

“They did not,” he said. “They have said very little. Content to let me do the talking, I think.” He paused. “I should say though that I am quite close to calling an attorney, depending on how this line of questioning continues to go.” Frankly, he should have already.

[anamusebouche]

Hannibal nodded. "My name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter, I'm a psychiatrist and tasked to assess the credibility of your statements, as well as your state of mind. Given your relation with Mr. Vessar, the fear is you might be too traumatized to recall the events and that your statements might be skewed."

A beat. "You don't seem traumatized."

[alcuin]

Alcuin stiffened slightly.

“I - well I - it’s very upsetting of course, we were very close. I um. I’m not sure it’s entirely sunk in yet.”

Why would they think he was traumatized? As far as they knew he had found out about Anagiel’s death along with the rest of the world.

[anamusebouche]

"You were very close," Hannibal replied. "Might I inquire how close?"

[alcuin]

Alcuin glanced almost imperceptibly at the camera he’d clocked in the room earlier. “Very close,” he repeated. “But you can’t believe everything you read in The Daily Mail.”

[anamusebouche]

"I don't tend to trust gossip," Hannibal replied. "But you can imagine why I was asked here, I'm sure." He too glanced at the camera, briefly, as if to indicate 'yes, we're being watched'.

[alcuin]

Alcuin tilted his head slightly, wondering if the psychiatrist had made that acknowledgment intentionally. Or perhaps he was reading too much into it.

"I am a very private person," he said. "If the police insist on knowing details of my private life beyond what I've already told them then I think it is best I have an attorney present."

He offered a small smile. "You are, after all, not my therapist."

[anamusebouche]

"If I were, I assure you, we would not be here," Hannibal replied. "Would you tell me about him?"

[alcuin]

Alcuin sighed. "Dr. Lecter, perhaps you could simply tell me what you need to know from me? As you said, I'm not traumatized."

Except he was, and he knew it.

[anamusebouche]

"I said you don't seem traumatized," Hannibal corrected mildly and with a little smile.

[alcuin]

Alcuin waited a beat and then said, "Well if I do have some underlying trauma, then I would be very happy to pay you for your time. As a therapist. Without cameras."

[anamusebouche]

Splendid, Hannibal thought. He much rather gave interesting people on his couch rather than in this clinical session.

"The cameras are a formality, as am I, in this setting." He opened the notebook and took out the police form. "You've told the police, but not me. Tell me about the last time you saw Anafiel alive."

[alcuin]

Alcuin froze for a fraction of a second—a hesitation so brief it would be imperceptible to most people.

“I...” Alcuin began, his voice softer than he intended. He cleared his throat and tried again, clasping his hands tightly in his lap beneath the table. “It was earlier that day. In the afternoon. We were talking. About work. Roles he wanted me to consider.”

[anamusebouche]

Hannibal noted down something on the form. "It's perfectly normal to be taken aback by it all and to feel anxious being here. That doesn't mean you're traumatized for some underlying reason." Such as because they were lovers or - perhaps - because he had murdered him.

[alcuin]

“As I said we were very close,” Alcuin said quietly. “This is all very upsetting.” Pause. “Do the police really think there was… foul play involved? Is that why I’m here? They didn’t tell me anything. I don’t even know how he died.”

A fall. It was just a fall.

[anamusebouche]

"Alarm bells go off when a rich man is involved," Hannibal said truthfully. "But if I sign this form, then they'll be more assured that pursuing such a line of inquire with you, at least, will be of little value."

That was the power he held.

He regarded him closely.

[alcuin]

Alcuin hadn't been expecting such a blatant statement as that. He wasn't sure what to say for a moment, but finally asked, "And are you inclined to sign it?"

[anamusebouche]

Hannibal regarded him closely. "I think you would benefit from talking to a psychiatrist, but I don't see any reason not to sign this form."

Upon which, he did indeed sign the form.

[alcuin]

Alcuin looked at him for a moment more, as if taking the measure of the man, and then nodded.

"Do you have a card?"

Though he hadn't decided yet if he was asking because he wanted to, or as a show for the cameras.

[anamusebouche]

Hannibal reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and produced a plain card. "The first session is always free of charge," he promised.

[alcuin]

Alcuin slipped the card into his pocket.

"Am I free to go then?" he asked.

[anamusebouche]

"The officer will decide that, but I don't think that will be a problem," Hannibal said with a small, kind smile.

[alcuin]

Alcuin hesitated, and then got to his feet. "Ah. Thank you, then, Dr. Lecter," he said, and politely offered his hand.

[anamusebouche]

Hannibal shook it with a curious nod.

The telephone call came a week later and Hannibal was truly pleased when it was Alcuin calling for a first appointment.

He arrived in time, and when Hannibal opened the door to the waiting room he was seated there already. "Do come in."

[alcuin]

Alcuin just briefly hesitated in the doorway, the heavy oak frame pressing against his fingertips. "Thank you," he said politely, and looked around as he walked inside. The space was somehow both soothing and intimidating. He did very much appreciate the walls lined with books though.

He was again dressed in muted tones, as though trying not to draw attention to himself. He wore the same soft, dove-gray button-down that clung neatly to his slender frame, and a cream-colored cardigan loosely over it. He was carrying a black leather satchel, worn edges showing age and use, though it was impeccably clean and well-maintained. On his right ring finger there was a slim silver band.

A wrinkle on his trousers near the knee showed where he’d been gripping them too tightly in the waiting room. Each detail of his attire seemed deliberate, but underneath it all, Alcuin was close to unraveling.