Log [Dexter and Hannibal]

[darkly_dreaming]

WHO: Hannibal Lecter (NBC's Hannibal) and Dexter Morgan (Dexter Novels)
WHAT: Hannibal gets sent to Miami as a consultant and decides to kick back and relax with some mocking copycat murders. Dexter catches wind of him.
WHERE: Miami
WARNINGS: Probably mentions of cannibalism, murder, serial killers, etc...



To almost everyone who worked busily at Miami's Police Department, this day was as normal as any other. There were fresh murders to investigate, there was awful coffee in the employee area in back, and as per usual Dexter had brought a box of donuts to work in order to placate the simple minds of his co-workers. Serial killers were not kind enough to bring everyone donuts, you see.

But to Dexter Morgan, today was a very strange day indeed. There were files the inbox, which sat in his own little office; this is par for the course for most days. But then diligent Dexter noticed something a touch peculiar. The victim in his file was something more than a drunken jealous murder by amateurs; this body was interesting...

There were drilled holes in the bones, for one. It wasn't random torture, though. Dexter had in fact seen these exact drill marks before, from a killer who used to string his victims up like marionettes.

Problem being, Dexter had already murdered that guy and dumped his dissected carcass into the ocean. So it was extremely unlikely that the same man had done this. Of course, he couldn't exactly share this information with anyone, so Dexter had to let the detectives chase thier tails on this, not that it really bothered him.

What did bother him though, were the subtle little differences in the body...

So it was that with a stack of glossy photos Dexter vacated his office in favor of sitting somewhere with apt table space. His search led to a conference room that was currently open for use (and by some fantastic coincidence, it was also the room that housed his half empty box of delicious donuts), so Dexter strolled in, whistling brightly as he dropped the photos on the lacquered table.

Now, about those differences...

Dexter sorted the shots for easy comparison, using both the photos of one of Pupito's (the marionette killer) victims as well as photos of his apparent new victim. Minutes flaked away in the air conditioned room with Dexter carefully looking between the shots of each victim. For one thing... whomever this copycat was, he had a much better sense of how the human body worked than Pupito did. The drill-holes were placed in slightly better positions on the body, if the end goal was moving it around like a puppet. The tools used were of higher quality too, cutting cleanly into the bone, while the previous victim showed more signs of trauma round the drill holes.

For a moment, Dexter cannot help but wonder what kind of drill was used. He could always go for buying some new toys... a slightly dreamy smile touched his face-- though it was stained dark, and not at all like a smile should look. But in barely a moment the look is gone, and Dexter replaces his Happy Worker mask with ease. He remembered that there was a new consultant on staff, on loan from the Baltimore sect of the FBI. He supposed he ought to politely introduce himself and put out some feelers; it wasn't too long ago he'd been caught in the cross-hairs of an FBI agent's suspicions. Though if he wanted to fake optimism, Dexter could always guess the new hire was due to the staggering number of unsolved murders cropping up as of late.

And yes, Dexter could have solved a good portion of them. He simply chose not to, still on the coattails of his terrible love affair with internet fame. The calls for interviews and appearances had slowed to a trickle, and with any luck, they'd be gone completely in a week or two. Reporters can have dreadfully short attention spans with so many murders flying about. Hopefully everyone would forget about the handsome lab geek that could solve crimes with his killer mind. Old news is old news, right?

A careful talon pokes Dexter's shoulder, and a cold whisper breaths against his ear.

'What?' Dexter wonders, glancing first back to the photos, and then towards the doorway.

Had someone snuck in for a donut while he'd been mulling this over?

Comments

[rhymeswithcannibal]

"It sounds as though our Mr. Prime has other people who would want to see him dead." Of course Hannibal's reason for killing Mr. Prime has everything to do with his attempt to sell Hannibal a forged Goya still life. He had wanted those golden bream for years, seeing them as a marvelous addition to his kitchen, but Prime couldn't even be bothered to ensure that they bream weren't publicly displayed elsewhere before trying to pawn off a forgery.

He pulls another photograph out of line; this one of the late Ms. Stanford and sets it parallel to that of Prime.

"Is your killer evolving?" he asks, setting a finger on the picture of the woman, indicating the almost indelicate holes left in her bone, then leans in to use his other hand to indicate a similar drill hole on Prime. "Acquiring better tools and honing his aesthetic?"

[darkly_dreaming]

"I'm sure he does," Dexter says agreeably; after all, it has to be one of those people who offed this guy. Probably. His eyes dart from image to image, again combing for any missed details. He still feels like he's missing something... Is attention jumps to the photos Hannibal paired, cool calculation shifting across his face. The blood didn't tell him much-- only that the victim didn't die in the place he was found in.

"He could be," save for the whole being dead part. Still, Dexter manages to sound very convincing-- as though it is a perfectly reasonable and possible happenstance.

"I'll tell you one thing; the last victim? The killer had class. Pupito has never before struck me as an efficient monster. A twisted one, most certainly, but never so... efficient. So clean." Dexter manages to keep all but the smallest hint of admiration from his tone. "Maybe he is improving," he say with flawlessly false agreement. "Or, there could be a copycat."

[rhymeswithcannibal]

"Recent experience tells me that I cannot discount the idea of a copycat." He allows a certain amount of sorrow slip into his tone. After all, he has lost both a friend and a daughter figure to a copycat as far as the public eye is concerned. He would be cold indeed if he didn't express some measure of emotion for those losses.

"However--" He pauses as he rearranges the photos into an easy chronology, from the first, roughest work to the last, polished puppet. "--it does stretch the law of averages that I would share a city with another one so soon after leaving Baltimore." Unless, of course, he were the common denominator, but why would anyone suspect him when the real copycat is safely behind bars in the BSHCI? Throwing up a victim's ear is somewhat more than circumstantial evidence.

"Do we have the chaos of human intervention - the eternal monkey wrench in the cosmic works - or just the evolution of a killer?"

[darkly_dreaming]

It does stretch a little probability, doesn't it? Dexter tucks the little fact into the back of his mind, cataloged for later observation.

"Hmmm..." Dexter gazes across the line of photos, trying to pick out details that he could twist to his explanation. He barely manages to look for a whole moment before the conference room doors slam open aggressively.

And there is Deborah, looking like a centerfold in a police outfit, save for the utterly unattractive scowl upon her face.

"Dexter," she says his name in kurt greeting, before her eyes flick to Hannibal. "You're the new guy, right?" she doesn't wait for him to answer, and turns her gaze back to big brother. "Dexter. This is shit, these asholes are chasing thier tales and I need to get this bastard!"

She drops herself into the seat next to Dexter, seeming utterly content to ignore Hannibal for her own purposes. Rude, yes, but also quite uncomfortable with her next thoughtlessly spoken words.

"You need to do that thing you do. Close your eyes and call up the damn psychic hotline or whatever you do."

Oh, wonderful. Dexter feels a slight heat on his neck-- he doesn't much like people knowing about his 'ability', and they way she's put it is even worse.

"It isn't a psychic hotline," he responds with irritation and indignity. Honestly, how many times did he have to tell her that?

"Whatever. Do your thing, Miss Cleo."

Dexter levels his sister with a rather flat stare, and shifts his gaze carefully to Hannibal. He never much enjoyed being rude, himself... such an unfortunate blemish on what could be a perfect mask.

"I'm sorry Doctor Lecter, as you can see, my sister can be a little stubborn. If you don't mind...?"

Please mind.

[rhymeswithcannibal]

While the interruption is annoying, Hannibal swivels to glance at Deborah Morgan with barely a mild twitch of his lips to indicate his displeasure with her. She has all the subtlety of cutting butter with a chainsaw, but she was a police officer, and even the unsubtle ones could surprise with their ability to read expression.

Fortunately for her, he prefers to kill law enforcement personnel only when absolutely necessary, no matter how rude they might be. They just take it so personally.

Besides, his ire doesn't hold when she offers such an intriguing tidbit about Dexter, much to Dexter's apparent chagrin. Speaking of stretching the bounds of coincidence - has he really stumbled upon another man with Will's gifts? Doubtful. Will's perception is a synthesis of his intellect, his neurodivergence, his empathy, and his imagination.

What Hannibal sees in Dexter so far doesn't bring Will to mind. So... what is he seeing?

Only one way to find out. He folds his hands in front of himself, cocks his head, smiles ever so faintly and murmurs, "Of course not. I am not here to interfere, but I do hope you'll allow me to observe."

[darkly_dreaming]

Damn it.

"By all means," it's a good thing that Dexter is such a flawless fake; he manages to pull of a breezy welcoming tone when all he really wants to do it hit Deborah in the head.

Well, maybe not. She'd hit him back, and he doesn't want anymore unnecessary bruises.

Might as well get it done to get her out of his hair, for now. Maybe he'd get lucky, and Hannibal would think his special skill is some kind of scam, like most of the cops around this place. So it is under Deborah's impatient stare that Dexter lets out an even breath, and begins to delve deeply onto his own mind. His eyes fall shut and his breath becomes deeper, slower... colder, anyone with especially acute senses may notice. His fingers ghost the glossy photos as he begins the internal dialogue, sitting with his demon breathing down his neck.

Why would we do this? they wonder together, and Dexter grasps easily at the answer: if they were to copy another killing, it would be... to make it better. Neater. Cleaner. And confusing the law enforcement would be an amusing side bonus. Dexter waits and feels a clicking internal purr; The Passenger seems to agree, and he is seldom wrong.

Alright, so what has been improved?

Dexter feels the sharp Cheshire cresent of his Shadows' grin, and a telling coldness touches his fingers upon one photo in particular. They depict a few of the expert slices into the muscle and tissue, which Dexter's and Demon's memory draw up quite clearly.

Yes, we already noted this improvement, Dexter reasons, but then... The cold pulse at the tips of his veins tells him to look again. The improvements are important... and as he vividly imagines a knife slicing into the flesh, he understands why. Dark Passenger chuckles, floating like a miasma through his thoughts as his eyes snap open, and he takes up the picture his hand had stopped upon.

He looks closely at the incisions, recalling his detailed knowledge on the way different blades cut flesh, and prompted by an approving purr from The Passenger...

"What we're missing... is that something is missing," Dexter said, voice a few notches lower and cooler than his Happy Lab Geek persona.

"What the hell does that mean?" Debs snapped, causing Dexter to very nearly roll his eyes. He's doing his best to keep his attention from sticking too obviously to thier uniquely clad guest; ideally, he should not seem overly concerned with what he has just demonstrated. It would only seem increasingly suspicious if he attempted to act secretive or strange.

"Look at this," he slides the appropriate photo so it may be viewed by both his pleasant guest, and his sister dearest. "The incisions are superior to previous cases-- but something we haven't seen before? The killer took something with him... or her," Equal opportunity and all that.

Deborah glowers suspiciously, and snatches the photo off the table, glaring at is as though she could force a spontaneous confession.

"What did the sicko take?"

"Muscle tissue, I believe," Dexter answers rather breezily, which is perhaps only the desensitising of a career where one sees horribly mutilated corpses almost daily. Or, maybe not. "Maybe bits and pieces, elsewhere. It would be very subtle, almost impossible to notice. It's almost like a test... a game."

Deborah gives Dexter a distrustful look spattered with something very near to disgust, as if she knew something troubling of her friendly donut bringing brother. She suddenly slams the photo back onto the table and pushes it in Hannibal's direction.

"What do you think, Mr. FBI?"

Dexter schools his expression into that of mild, unconcerned curiosity, inwardly sharpening his focus on Hannibal; yes, what does Mr. FBI think...?

[rhymeswithcannibal]

Hannibal's thoughts of Will resurface when Dexter first closes his eyes. Is a pendulum swinging in the man's imagination?

No, but something is happening. Hannibal is, to all external appearances, merely politely interested and waiting, but internally he has eyes only for the tableau in front of him and most specifically for Dexter. He sees Dexter's human mask slip a little, offering only a tantalizing hint that there's something beneath, but that hint tells him that dear Mr. Morgan is much more interesting than he'd initially thought.

He makes a note to find out where Dexter lives.

Particularly when the man finally homes in on the detail that really matters. All this from some pressure from his sister and a few minutes of an almost meditative re-examination of the photos?

He maintains his polite silence until Deborah includes him in the discussion, then he takes up the photo and examines, mentally critiquing its artistic composition rather than searching for some detail he'd missed before. It's actually quite lovely in its precision and he enjoys it for its gory whimsy, but he wears a neutral mask when he looks away from it to Deborah. "I think that your brother is correct that there is tissue missing. Based on what I have seen of the other crime scene photographs, it's possible that the flesh was taken in the interest of improving movement, but it's also possible that your perpetrator is now taking trophies."

Or ingredients...

[darkly_dreaming]

Dexter's imagination is more inclined to clean darkness and fun with knives, but it doesn't mean he can't provide his own unique point of view. Deborah understands how intimately Dexter know these things, and he isn't sure if she trusts him more or less because of it. Sometimes, it's both.

"You you think there's a chance Dex might be right?" Deborah sounds slightly incredulous, but not as though she's completely dismissing the idea. Her hard gaze cuts to her brother and she sticks her chin out slightly. "You done with your loser streak, Dex?"

Dexter holds up his hands in defense and adapts a look of hurt.

"Deborah, I always inform you to the best of my ability. Maybe I'm just not as talented as you think." This is a lovely conversation to have with the FBI's consultant on hand; see? all this fuss and fanfare streamed across the blogosphere about Dexter is overblown, silly conjecture.

Still, his younger sister gives him a little snarl and pins him with what is certainly a Tough Cop gaze.

"Don't bullshit me, Dex. I know you've got these sick fucks all figured out. Just hope you've finally decided to stop dicking around." Deborah swings her attention back to Hannibal, fiercely assessing him for a few moments. "Thanks," she finally says with a curt little nod. "Guess if you think there's half a chance he's not crazy, we can check it out. I'll call the morgue and get the lab geeks on this."

And she's gone, stalking off elsewhere into the station.

"My dearest sister," Dexter's care and irritation are portioned evenly into his voice. "Charming, isn't she?" he's also an expert with faintly applied sarcasm. He would rather not have had that conversation in front of someone else, but Deborah bulldozed right through that preference. "Our father was also a cop; he didn't exactly stress subtly."

Dexter sits back a little in his chair, covering a clinical scan with a look of friendly attentiveness. Whatever Hannibal's reaction was, he kept it under a wrap of subtly. Should he be cautious, he wonders?

"It was very nice to have a little back up," he adds, manually warming his smile a few degrees. "Now we just have to figure out what someone wanted with several discrete slices of muscle tissue. Assuming, of course, that I'm correct." That cheery desensitization has to be because he sees death every day, right? Oh, totally correct. Dexter is already certain he's right, but since he doesn't really want to get into the 'how' of it, he keeps the boasting toned down.