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Lumen Obscura	By : PinkSiamese Category: -Misc TV Shows > Crossovers Views: 1077 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal or Dexter in any of their incarnations (TV shows, movies, books). I am making no money off this story.

Chapter List
- 13
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- 15
“Watch it—ˮ
Beverly stands half in and half out of the doorway, paper bags held in one hand and a cardboard drink tray in the other. She pauses, gives him a puzzled look.
“Dow…look…downoh dammit, Stella.” Will runs haphazard fingers across his hair. “Jesus Christ.” He flaps his hands at the hallway. “Come in and close the door,” he says, crossing the room, angling his body to stride past her.
“Will, what are you doing?”
“Close the door, Bev!”
She comes into the room, closes the door. A fluffy black kitten slides out from beneath the bed’s dust ruffle, elongates its body in an almost comical stretch. It blinks sleepy eyes. It lifts its little tail, trots toward her.
“Oh my God.” Bev puts the bags and the coffee down on the desk. She squats, holds her hand out. “Are you fuckin serious. You are. You’re serious.” The kitten scampers over and sniffs her fingers.
“Bev.” Will knocks on the door. “Let me in, please?”
“Yeah.” She scoops up the kitten, holds it against her blouse. She opens the door. Lifts an eyebrow. Holds up the kitten. “Kittens?”
“Yeah,” he says, shouldering back into the room, Stella perched over one shoulder.
“Where did you find kittens? Wait.” She holds up a hand. “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.” She places her kitten on the bed. “How long have you had them?”
He shrugs. “Couple days.”
“Does the hotel know?”
Will works one of the coffee cups free of the carrier. “They say they’re pet friendly.”
“Yeah, sure, but I think they still want to know. What about housekeeping?”
He takes a tentative sip. “Do not disturb sign.”
“Uh huh.” She looks him over. “You ready to go?”
“Whenever you are.”
Bev sips her coffee. “So what are their names?”
“The one with the white on her chest is Stella. I haven’t come up with a name for the other one yet.” He glances at her. “They’re both girls.”
“Why not?”
“I dunno.” He shrugs. “When I look at her I don’t see anything obvious.”
“Stella is obvious?”
“The white on her chest.” He points. “It looks kind of like a star.”
Bev squints, tilts her head. “I guess maybe a big blobby one. If that’s what you want to see.”
His mouth tenses into a brief smile. “I guess it is what I want to see.”
Bev looks at the ceiling. She rubs her chin. “What about…Esmeralda?”
Will looks at the kitten. “Why?”
“Why not?” Bev picks up one of the bags. “It’s a cool name.”
He picks up the other bag. “Okay.” He opens it, pokes his nose in. “Is this one mine?”
“It is now that you’ve breathed all over it.”
He glances at her and wrinkles his nose. “Ha.”
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go, Kitten Man.”
Will walks to the bathroom and sticks his head in, looks around. He turns off the light. He puts the TV on, switches the channel to the Shopping Network. He turns the volume down and tosses the remote back onto the bed.
Bev watches him. “What are you doing?”
“Checking their litter box and turning on the television.” He gives the look on her face a double-take. “What? It’s so they don’t get lonely during the day.”
“I don’t think you have to do that with cats,” she says. “Dogs maybe, but don’t cats like to be alone?”
“These guys don’t.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Maybe it’s because they’re babies?”
“I don’t know, maybe,” she mutters, heading for the door. She looks over her shoulder. “Ready?”
“Yeah, I’m still ready.”
Bev steps out into the hallway.
Will follows her, turning to peek through the narrowing gap in the door. “Don’t you even think about it. No. I said no.” He sticks the toe of this shoe in the gap. “Back up.”
Beverly watches him, her arms folded and her weight shifted to one side. A half-smile hovers over her mouth.
Will turns. “What?”
“You’re cute.”
He leans back, cheeks turning a slight pink. He starts to laugh and furrows his brows, tilts his head, rights it again. “Why…why do you say—?ˮ
“Calm down.” A sharpness creeps into the edge of her voice. “It’s not like I’m going to, I don’t know, jump you or anything.” The half-smile settles onto her mouth. “With animals, I mean. It’s sweet. I know you’ve got a bunch of dogs, too. You obviously care a great deal.”
Will shrugs. He shakes his head, glances at his feet. “Well I…I couldn’t just leave them there. You know?” He looks up, searches her eyes. “What else could I do?”
“Nothing.” She cuts her eyes away. She turns. “I think you did the right thing. Of course you did the right thing.” She starts to walk. “I still think you should tell the hotel, though. What if one of the maids goes in anyway and…I don’t know…calls the Humane Society or something?”
Will keeps up with her. “It hasn’t happened yet.”
She pushes a button for the elevator. “True.”
The doors open. Beverly steps in, moves into the corner. Will wanders in behind her, holding the bag open. He reaches inside. “What is this, exactly?”
“Bagel breakfast sandwich with egg and sausage.”
He pulls it out of the bag. “Thanks.”
She smiles at him, coffee cup held up by her chin. “You’re welcome.”
He unwraps it, takes a big bite. “You’re nice to me,” he says around a mouthful. “I appreciate it.”
“Yeeeeah.” She bends her knees, sticks out one leg, and knocks the toe of her shoe against the toe of his. “Don’t act like it’s such a hardship.” She grins. “You’re cool.”
He swallows, wipes his mouth. He looks down at the sandwich. He takes another bite. “I don’t know.”
“Well…I do.” She faces the doors, sips her coffee. “Thank God for that, right?”
The doors ding open.
“So, have you got the show all ready to go?”
Will pats his pocket. “Yes.”
“Is it, like, PowerPoint and everything?”
Will shoves the last of the bagel into his mouth. “Something like that.”
“Jimmy and Brian flew out this morning. Or,” she glances at her watch, “rather, they’re at the airport and enduring airport security. I still have cataloguing to do, so I’m out of here tomorrow.” She tosses her empty coffee cup into the trash. “You?”
“Yeah,” he says, sipping his coffee. “Me too.”
“I heard Dr. Lecter is staying at the Biltmore.” She shakes her head. “That place looks like a wedding cake.”
Will snorts. He crumples up the bag, tosses it into the trash. “I have to agree.”
Beverly looks at him.
Will meets her eyes, glances away, looks at her smile.
She bursts out laughing.
He starts to chuckle. “What’s so funny?”
“Just…I don’t know,” she says, pausing to put on her sunglasses. “Sometimes you crack me up.”
“What did I do?”
She chuckles. “If you have to ask, I guess you’ll never know.”
He rubs his eyes. “I’m too tired to laugh.”
They step out into the bright morning sun. It’s overcast, the light filtered by low-hanging clouds into a harsh white. The pavement is wet. The wind shakes raindrops off the palm fronds. It smells of flowers, salt, exhaust.
Beverly starts toward her car and turns. “Hey.”
Will stops at the sound of her voice, looks up. He turns around. “Yeah?”
“Good luck.”
“It’s not a class project.” His unsteady smile flickers on his face. “They’re not giving me a grade or anything.” It settles into a brief grin. “Luck isn’t necessary.”
“I want you to have some anyway.”
“Thanks.” He takes a step back. “See you later.”
“Later, Graham.” Bev turns. “Try to behave yourself.”
* * *
Lumen takes a table by the big windows so she can watch the harbor, the boats bobbing in their slips. She orders water with lime and a turkey sandwich.
“Sorry, running a little late.”
She turns. Dexter comes to the table, pulls out the chair across from her. “Traffic is bad. I think there’s an accident somewhere.”
“Hey.” She picks up her water glass, takes a sip. “How’s your day so far?”
“Can’t complain.” He picks up a menu. “They’re wrapping up the case today. The FBI.” He glances at her. “They’re giving their profile after lunch. My guess is they’ll all fly home to Quantico in the morning.”
Lumen puts the glass down. “That’ll be nice for you.” She looks at him. “Won’t it?”
“Yeah, totally. Deb has been pulling her hair out for the last four days. Oh. Did I tell you she got promoted?”
“No!” Lumen leans back in her chair. “That’s great.” She smiles. “Good for her.”
“Yeah. She’s lieutenant of homicide. She’s new at it, too; she’s only been in the office for a couple months. Big case like this lands on her desk and it’s chaos, and then of course we’ve got the FBI stepping all over everyone’s toes.” Dexter rolls his eyes. “She’s like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs right now.”
“I bet.” Lumen picks up her glass, looks out the window. “It’s not like the rest of Miami’s murderers have taken the week off.” She looks into his eyes. “Right?”
Dexter orders a chicken sandwich with chips and orange juice. “I’m curious about the profile,” he says. “I have to admit it.”
Lumen watches his face. “You think he’ll kill again?”
“Absolutely. He views himself as some kind of…” He lowers his voice. “Artist. He likes the taxidermy a little too much. He’s got a taste. He’ll be back.”
Lumen catches the straw in her mouth. She lifts her eyebrows. “Then so will the FBI.”
The waitress brings Dexter’s orange juice. He pulls a napkin from the dispenser, folds it into a coaster. “Yeah. How are you?”
“Good.” She smiles. “I got great sleep last night. I spent all morning looking for jobs. I found way more open positions than I expected.”
“Great. You apply?”
“Of course! Most of them are in the immediate area, but I found one in Ft. Lauderdale that I applied for and there’s one on Key Largo.”
“Key Largo.” He whistles. “Nice.”
“I know, right? I think the chances probably aren’t great, but I was like it’s worth a shot. You never know. I checked the rents and they’re not too bad for a one bedroom. Not as bad as I thought they would be, anyway.”
“It’s the cost of everything else that will get you.”
“Yeah. I know.” She chuckles a little, nods. “I figured that out pretty quick.”
“Those hospitals would be fortunate to have you as their administrator…staffer…coordinator.” He grins. “Whatever it is you do.”
“I do boring hospital or clinic administrative work that is boring,” she says, giggling. “To most people. I like it, though. Playing with numbers and graphs makes me happy.”
“Better you than me.”
“So…” She puts her elbows on the table, drops her face into her hands. “Got any plans tonight? I can’t remember the name of that Chinese place we used to order from, Golden Lotus or Dragon Lotus or whatever it was, but I was thinking of maybe picking some up.” She grins, pokes his wrist. “I could grab you some too, maybe swing by for a couple of hours?”
“I can’t,” he says, “dammit, because that sounds way better than this thing I let myself get talked into.” He sighs, rolls his eyes. “Jack Crawford, I think his name is? Anyway, he’s having some dinner thing tonight at some fancy downtown restaurant and LaGuerta told Deb she has to go and isn’t she pissed, too. She tried to get out of it. LaGuerta wouldn’t budge.” He laughs. “I don’t know if she’s more pissed off at the politics of it all or pissed off that she has to wear a dress. So she cornered me in my lab and begged me to go with her. A good brother doesn’t say no when his sister is on her knees. She also threatened my life.” He grins. “I said yes. She knows where I live.”
Lumen laughs. She covers her mouth. “Good thing.”
“I know, right?”
The food comes. The waitress sets each plate down, one at a time.
“Maybe tomorrow, then,” she says, unrolling her napkin.
He watches her. “Maybe.”
Lumen picks up her sandwich and takes a bite. “This is so good.” She wipes her mouth. “I’d forgotten how good this is.”
Dexter looks at her, a slight smile on his face.
She puts the sandwich down. “What?”
“Are you still scared?”
He puts her hands in her lap. She glances at the plate, out the window. “Of course I am.”
“How long will it take?”
She looks at him. “What do you mean?”
Dexter closes his eyes, exhales. “For you to not be scared anymore.” He opens his eyes. “Do they have to go?”
Lumen lowers her voice, yanks the napkin off the table. “We already had this conversation. I said no.”
“No no, that’s not what I mean.”
He puts a hand on hers. She flinches.
“I mean literally go. Fly home.”
She withdraws her hand. “They’ll go, and then when mermaid maker, taxidermist, whatever you’re calling him comes back,” she says, taking another napkin from the dispenser, “so will they.” She looks up. “That’s the way it is.”
“I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. They—he—is way too busy with this guy to bother with you.” He pauses. “Or with me.”
She sighs, rubs her forehead. “I know.” She picks up her sandwich. “You’re probably right.”
“I’m glad you agree with me.”
“I do.”
He takes a bite of his sandwich.
Lumen’s phone buzzes. She picks it up off the table, turns it over. The bright light from the windows makes is hard to read the screen. She brings it closer to her face, squints. She unlocks the screen with her thumb.
Are you perchance free for dinner tonight?
She smiles, turns the phone sideways.
Yes, as a matter of fact. When would you like to pick me up?
She puts the phone down. “My psychiatrist friend,” she says. “He wants to go out tonight.”
“And?”
She takes a bite of her sandwich. “I said yes.”
“Great.” Dexter looks at her, takes a drink of orange juice. “Have fun.”
She smiles. “I intend to.”
* * *
The overhead light buzzes, trapped in a perfect two-second cycle: flicker, hum, flicker. The angles and hard surfaces of the conference room change their dimensions slightly beneath the fluorescent’s cold spectrum. Glancing from glint to glint, reflected in glass, metal, the smooth white of the markerboard, exhausts him.
People stand around the room’s perimeter, making it smaller. They fill the corners with rumpled suits, bent elbows, tapping feet, murmured chatter.
Will rubs his eyes.
A slim brunette in a light gray pantsuit edges her way in. The perimeter shifts in her direction. She turns a white and crooked smile to everyone in the room.
“Lieutenant Morgan!” Jack looks around. “Is this everyone?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, wiping her palms on her hips. Her feet fidget as he looks around. “I think so.” She nods. “Sorry I’m late. I got hung up.”
“If you haven’t met already,” says Jack, holding his arms toward Will, “This is our psychological profiler, Will Graham. Will,” he holds a hand in Deb’s direction, “Lieutenant Debra Morgan.”
“We have, actually.” Will’s eyes flick to Deb; he gives her a quick nod. “Lieutenant.”
“Mr. Graham.” She smiles and nods, backs herself into a space near the door. “Go ahead. We’re ready whenever you are.”
“Great!” Jack claps his hands together. He beams at Will. “Well then, if everyone’s here let’s get this show on the road.”
“You’re the boss.” Will half-turns toward the projector screen. He glances at the remote in his hand. “Before I begin,” he continues, turning to face the front of the room, “Copies of this profile have been e-mailed to the heads of all departments. If, at any time, further questions arise, please do not hesitate to contact either Jack or myself at Quantico.”
“Mr. Graham,” says Deb, holding up a hand. “Now, is my copy exactly like this one? Down to every page, every detail, every image?”
“Yes,” says Will.
“Okay.” She smiles. “Great.”
Will clicks a button. The screen fills with a dirty torso lying face-up on honey-colored sand. The skin is pale, torn, bloodless. Chunks of fat have eroded out from beneath the sliced skin. Muscle tissue hangs below the waist in shreds. The insides of the forearms are pecked full of holes. The hair is blonde, matted into the sand by rain. The eyes are missing.
“Ashley Benton,” he says. “Twenty years old. The first victim. Found on the early morning of April 12 by vacationers on a beach outside of Newport, Texas. As you can see,” he clicks the button, “with Ashley, the work was, shall we say, less precise.”
The second slide shows a shark tail lying bottom-up on the sand, approximately eight feet away.
“In the cases of Jessica Flynn and Carolyn Fletcher, the tails were affixed to the torsos in layers. The bones, in this case the spine, coccyx, and bottom ribs, were affixed to the cartilaginous structures of the sharks using three-inch screws. Musculature was then grafted onto musculature with large cross stitches using multifilament fishing line. The skin layer was then sewn in tiny zigzag stitches with a translucent monofilament line.”
He clicks the remote. The faces of the Coral Gables victims fill the screen.
“In Texas, he did not bother with the screws. He used monofilament line for the muscle layers as well as the skin layer, and he used a small zigzag stitch on the fascia. Also, he did not bother with the teeth. Were the teeth an added flourish? Did he not have enough time in Texas to bother with the teeth? Perhaps there was no access to multifilament line.” Will shrugs. “I don’t know. Could be all of the above. Could be none of the above.”
He clicks the button, clears the screen. He faces the room.
“We are looking for a man in his thirties. He’s strong enough to handle a hundred-plus pounds of dead weight easily so he’s probably big and is definitely in exceptional physical shape. He is most likely white, but could be mixed-race. He grew up on these waters, knows them like the back of his hand. He’s been fishing these waters since—birth? Childhood? Most of his life. He’s familiar enough with the anatomy of fish to know which breeds are going to work for this sort of—I don’t know—gruesome experiment in taxidermy, and which ones won’t. He’s got his own boat. It’s commercial, it has to be in order to provide the room to do this kind of work. If it’s not, it’s big. Expensive.”
He clicks the button, turns around. A list with bullet points fills the screen.
“He is either retired, wealthy, or both. He doesn’t have time for work.” He swallows. “This. This is his work. Days…days upon days are spent hunting for the perfect woman. She has to be a certain weight, has to have a certain build. A specific skin color. And it’s not just about aesthetics, but about what’s practical; there can’t be too much fat, because adipose tissue won’t hold its shape when exposed to death and the elements. There needs to be enough muscle, and it has to be strong muscle. The bones can’t be thin or brittle.”
He changes the picture to a shot of the Coral Gables crime scene.
“Then…days upon days are spent looking for the perfect fish. Two women, two fish.” He gestures over his shoulder. “This easily represents three months work of work, right here.”
“So,” says Deb, “he’s got a boathouse or a cabin or something.”
“Yes.” Will points to her and nods. “Yes, exactly. Thank you, Lieutenant. He has a house, or a cottage, or an island. Someplace private, where he can keep these women locked up for weeks at a time. He may do some of the…work, at home, and some on the boat; he may do all of it on the boat. Regardless, no matter where he lives, he really lives on this boat. He loves it. It’s…it’s his world. On the boat, on the water. That’s his true home.”
He clicks the remote. Three X-ray images light up the screen. He looks at them.
“He keeps the feet. He puts them in what would be considered the shark’s throat, if the shark were a human, but he discards the legs. There were no feet found at the Texas scene but due to the disarticulated nature of the body it’s entirely likely that they were carried off by animals, or by the tide, or—ˮ
“What do the feet have to do with it? How do they fit in?”
Will turns his head. “I’m sorry, have we met?” He furrows his brow. “What’s your name again?”
“Dexter Morgan.” He folds his arms. “Blood spatter analyst.”
Will glances at Deb. He glances at Dexter. “Mr. Morgan.” He smiles a little. “Or is it Doctor?”
Dexter’s mouth flattens into a line. He exhales through is nose. “Mister is fine.”
“That’s a good question, Mr. Morgan, and it brings me to the next point of the profile. Our unsub is an educated man. He may have blue-collar roots but he’s made it through college at some point in his life. He has at least a baccalaureate degree. Possibly a master’s.”
Dexter lifts his eyebrows. “You get that from feet?”
Will’s voice is calm, even. “The premeditated and thoughtful application of semiosis, with its deliberate evocation of and reliance on symbols produced by the Western canon of myth, makes it the kind of aesthetic decision that an educated man is more likely to make.”
“Oh-kay.” Dexter folds his arms. “You wanna translate that into English?”
Deb nudges Dexter’s foot with hers. She spears him with a glowering look.
Will lifts his eyebrows. “No.” He gives a tight little smile. “Look it up.”
Deb shakes hair back out of her face. “You were saying, sir?”
“He’s educated,” continues Will. “The placement of the feet within the overall context of the scene—the arrangement of it, it’s theatrical quality—brings to mind elements of mermaid myths across the world and, more to the point, how they have figured prominently in both art and literature. So we’re not looking for someone,” he glances at Dexter, “who thinks that book larnin’ is a big ole waste of time. He, even if his family scorns such things—perhaps because his family scorns such things—is proud of his education, of his familiarity with the classics.” He clears his throat. “It is highly likely that these…installations, as it were, are for the benefit of those with a similar level of education. He would consider them his primary audience.”
Deb holds up a hand.
Will nods. “Yes?”
“How about the teeth? What’s the deal with those?”
“At this time we’re considering the teeth to be either a creative whim holding little significance or an evolutionary detail. I would need the presence of another body to confirm.”
Deb nods. She starts to grin. “Because it’s only present in the bodies found at Coral Gables.”
Will nods. “Yes.”
“If I, or anyone here, comes up with additional thoughts, like about the teeth. Are we free to contact you with those?”
“Yes, definitely.” Will flashes a brief but brilliant smile. “Of course.”
Deb smiles. “Great.”
“To recap,” says Will, “White or mixed-race male in his thirties, healthy, possibly of a wealthy background, with the means to spend his days on the sea looking for the perfect fish. Well-educated, he probably cleans up real nice. May participate in cultural events when not spending his time on his boat.” He places the remote on the conference table. “We are flying out first thing tomorrow morning, so any questions, thoughts, opinions should be forwarded to the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Thank you,” he goes on, edging his way to the door. “And have a nice day.”
Beverly intercepts him. She grins at him, lowers her voice. “Have a nice day? Really?”
“Well, yeah.” He puts his hands on his pockets, looks around. “Try at least.”
The perimeter breaks up. It drifts apart, the volume of conversation climbing until it almost blocks out the buzzing of the fluorescent bulbs.
Jack taps him on the shoulder. “Go. Get out of here. I’ll take care of this.”
Will sighs. “Thank you.”
Beverly grins at Jack, bumps her fist against his arm. “Break it down, Chief.”
“That is my job. You can go too, if you want.”
“See you at seven.” Bev looks at Will. “Think I’ve got time to get my nails done?”
Will snorts. “And you are asking me because why?”
“Good point.”
- 13
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- 15
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Lumen Obscura