Freddie Tattled On Me

A Freddie Lounds Roleplay Blog

[parksandhannibal]

[nbchannibal]

Sorry, OITNB, but we were the ones that made orange cool.

Vote for Hannibal: bit.ly/18miheQ

[freddietattledonme]

The snow is crunching more loudly under Freddie’s feet than she would like. It’s snow that is perfect for snowballs but not as much for sneaking into a crime scene, and she darts across the ground on pointed toes. Her informant was stingy with what he gave her; a family had been murdered at their…

[deactivatedx324623]

"I think," Will says softly and slightly shaky from his efforts to control his rage, "That I’m going to keep these, and you’re going to walk away." It was one thing for the "reporter" to to paint him as a psychopath, but exploiting a murder that included a child was on a whole other, sick level.

Will swallows. He is still hovering between his reality and the Grinch’s. Perhaps it is this state of being that is making him especially angry. “Jack and his army are all over there behind the trees.” Will lifts his arm and points to the faint, flashing blue and red lights. “With one call, I can have you arrested for contaminating a crime scene.” 

It was obvious that Freddie is, for the first time to Will’s knowledge, afraid. It seems that she does have some sort of soul. She is shaking, and Will almost feels bad for her. He knows that she has seen many gruesome things in her lifetime, but there is something especially demented to see such purity ripped and mangled.

Will had to see it. Will had to re-live it. In some way, Freddie is as well.

"Now," Will continues, staring at her shoes. "The public wouldn’t be happy to know that you invaded a crime scene that is dealing with children, just to get a,"He shakes his head in disgust. "story. They say bad publicity is still better than none, but do you really think that people would read anything you write if this is leaked by me?”

Freddie Lounds isn’t the only one who can make threats. She can make the world afraid of him, but as long as the Bureau has his back, it doesn’t really matter. Will is not a here to please the masses; he’s here to save them.

Will adjusts his glasses, and for the first time, he briefly looks into a pair of blue eyes. He can feel the snow start to seep into his boots as he waits for an answer.

[freddietattledonme]

She catches the look in his eyes as Will forces himself to stare straight at her, and she knows he is expecting the worst. And she should be at her worst right now, ready with a vicious comeback like an animal clawing when it’s backed into a corner. Not to mention it’s their first time meeting in person, and she really should be trying to make a more interesting impression than the one of the glassy-eyed fool that she’s giving right now.

But there’s nothing. Her mind is frozen and all she can think is that she hopes with all her heart that he can forgive her for her transgressions at this place. It’s crazy, out of character, and she can’t imagine where the idea came from. That she, Freddie Lounds, would care at any level what a half-crazed man like Will Graham would think of her is just… 

"Take it," she says, motioning to the camera. She sees his eyebrows raise in surprise. He was expecting her to put up a fight.

Not about this.

"I…I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I can’t write about this."

Now Will’s eyebrows are crawling to ridiculous heights, the shock in his face almost comical.

"I know, I know. I’m a heartless bitch and I should be exploiting this for all it’s worth. And I swear I would be. Normally. But surprisingly enough, even I have morals. I won’t make a circus of a child’s death."

[deactivatedx324623]

Will holds her eyes for a moment longer before he breaks the contact and shrugs. It was a noncommittal gesture because he needed time to wrap his brain around Freddie Lounds standing down. He almost wanted to use her camera to forever capture the look on her face.

"You are at times," he huffs out a puff of breath. "All the time," he quickly admits. "You can be a bitch. But, when you ever get bored with that, an anonymous submission to a local paper or any other source that isn’t your usual junk site commemorating the family based on the information someone may give you later on would be a nice way to go.”

Will raises a brow when he hears a car door being slammed. It has to be the car of whoever “the kid” was. “I’m going to have to have to watch you walk away,” Will says. “One good deed doesn’t redeem a person from a life of wickedness.”

[freddietattledonme]

"Oh dear," Freddie gives him a harsh laugh. "You'd be the last person I would turn to for lessons on morality, Mister Graham."

She's still shaken, but seeing that her breakdown has inspired only confusion, and not disgust, gives her some confidence back. She feels herself regain some power. 

Leaning in close, close enough for a strand of hair the color of blood to brush his shoulder, she whispers to him. "I'm just waiting for you to break."

"And don't worry," she grins as she pulls away, "there's much more wickedness to come."

She turns on her heel and begins crunch loudly back across the snow, waving one hand behind her. "It was nice meeting you, Will!"

[freddietattledonme]

The snow is crunching more loudly under Freddie’s feet than she would like. It’s snow that is perfect for snowballs but not as much for sneaking into a crime scene, and she darts across the ground on pointed toes. Her informant was stingy with what he gave her; a family had been murdered at their…

[deactivatedx324623]

"I think," Will says softly and slightly shaky from his efforts to control his rage, "That I’m going to keep these, and you’re going to walk away." It was one thing for the "reporter" to to paint him as a psychopath, but exploiting a murder that included a child was on a whole other, sick level.

Will swallows. He is still hovering between his reality and the Grinch’s. Perhaps it is this state of being that is making him especially angry. “Jack and his army are all over there behind the trees.” Will lifts his arm and points to the faint, flashing blue and red lights. “With one call, I can have you arrested for contaminating a crime scene.” 

It was obvious that Freddie is, for the first time to Will’s knowledge, afraid. It seems that she does have some sort of soul. She is shaking, and Will almost feels bad for her. He knows that she has seen many gruesome things in her lifetime, but there is something especially demented to see such purity ripped and mangled.

Will had to see it. Will had to re-live it. In some way, Freddie is as well.

"Now," Will continues, staring at her shoes. "The public wouldn’t be happy to know that you invaded a crime scene that is dealing with children, just to get a,"He shakes his head in disgust. "story. They say bad publicity is still better than none, but do you really think that people would read anything you write if this is leaked by me?”

Freddie Lounds isn’t the only one who can make threats. She can make the world afraid of him, but as long as the Bureau has his back, it doesn’t really matter. Will is not a here to please the masses; he’s here to save them.

Will adjusts his glasses, and for the first time, he briefly looks into a pair of blue eyes. He can feel the snow start to seep into his boots as he waits for an answer.

[freddietattledonme]

She catches the look in his eyes as Will forces himself to straight at her, and she knows he is expecting the worst. And she should be at her worst right now, ready with a vicious comeback like an animal clawing when it's backed into a corner. Not to mention it's their first time meeting in person, and she really should be trying to make a more interesting impression than the one of the glassy-eyed fool that she's giving right now.

But there's nothing. Her mind is frozen and all she can think is that she hopes with all her heart that he can forgive her for her transgressions at this place. It's crazy, out of character, and she can't imagine where the idea came from. That she, Freddie Lounds, would care at any level what a half-crazed man like Will Graham would think of her is just... 

"Take it," she says, motioning to the camera. She sees his eyebrows raise in surprise. He was expecting her to put up a fight.

Not about this.

"I...I don't even know what I'm doing here. I can't write about this."

Now Will's eyebrows are crawling to ridiculous heights, the shock in his face almost comical.

"I know, I know. I'm a heartless bitch and I should be exploiting this for all it's worth. And I swear I would be. Normally. But surprisingly enough, even I have morals. I won't make a circus of a child's death."

[freddietattledonme]

The snow is crunching more loudly under Freddie's feet than she would like. It's snow that is perfect for snowballs but not as much for sneaking into a crime scene, and she darts across the ground on pointed toes. Her informant was stingy with what he gave her; a family had been murdered at their vacation cottage and it was messy. She's crouching among the woods in back of the house, but she can see the intermittent flashing of lights from police cruisers pulled up in front. A lot of them.

Edging along the woods and still a good fifty meters from the house itself, she moves closer to the front lawn. There are a few agents hovering around one particular evergreen tree, and she pulls out a pair of high-end binoculars to see what it is that interests them so much. Adjusting the focus, the first thing Freddie's gaze lands on is a patch of red, strikingly beautiful against the snow still fresh on the ground. She follows the trail of red up the tree, where she can see it congealing on the branches almost as if the tree itself had been lit on fire. But she knows fire isn't what did this, and that's what makes her hands go cold as she finally reaches the treetop, crowned with a sickeningly macabre display. 

There are three heads, human heads, stuck atop the tree. She finds she can think of nothing but their gaping mouths, and she feels sick. She knows the child's lolling tongue will haunt her dreams for months. Her fingers are fumbling for her camera, focusing the lens and tapping at the shutter, and then the whole thing slips from her hands and crashes onto the ground. A pair of shoes steps into her field of vision, and then a foreign hand appears, picks the camera up, and dusts the snow off.

Freddie is panicking now, but not how she should be. She's worried because she's not worried enough, because her tongue is not yet spilling over with excuses for her presence at this crime scene. All she feels is numb. 

"Thank you," she says mechanically. Her eyes meet those of the person in front of her, and she forces a dry smile when she sees that it is none other than Will Graham. She's annoyed that he's seeing her off her game like this, perhaps more annoyed than she should be, but maybe her sudden change of attitude will confuse him. At least that would be amusing.

[writerswritecompany]

Literary Birthday - 22 August

Happy Birthday, Dorothy Parker, born 22 August 1893, died 7 June 1967. 

The 10 Most Memorable Dorothy Parker Quotes

1. This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.

2. Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.

3. I don’t know much about being a millionaire, but I’ll bet I’d be darling at it.

4. I hate writing, I love having written.

5. That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgement.

6. I’d like to have money. And I’d like to be a good writer. These two can come together, and I hope they will, but if that’s too adorable, I’d rather have money.

7. But I don’t give up; I forget why not.

8. The only “ism” Hollywood believes in is plagiarism.

9. Living well is the best revenge.

10.  Razors pain you,        Rivers are damp,        Acids stain you,        And drugs cause cramp.        Guns aren’t lawful,        Nooses give,        Gas smells awful.        You might as well live.

Parker was an American poet, short story writer, critic and satirist.

by Amanda Patterson for Writers Write

[thisismyspitesong]

He waited until the train was in motion to make his move—a true sign of someone who knows how to make the environment work to their advantage. Then he leaned forward. “Hi.” “How you doing?” “What are you reading?” “What’s your name?” “I really like your hair.” “That’s a really nice skirt.” “You must work out.” It was painful to watch. She clearly wanted nothing to do with him, and he clearly wasn’t going to take the hint. Her rebukes got firmer. “I’d like to read my book.” And he pulled out the social pressure. “Hey, I’m just asking you a question. You don’t have to be so rude.” She started to look around for outs. Her head swiveled from one exit to another. The thing was, I had already heard this story, many many times. I knew how it would play out. I knew all the tropes. I probably could have quoted the lines before they said them. I wanted a new narrative. Time to mix it up. So I moved seats until I was sitting behind him. I leaned forward with my head on the back of his seat. "Hi," I said with a little smile. He looked at me like I was a little crazy—which isn’t exactly untrue—and turned back to her. "How are you doing?" I asked. "I’m fine," he said flatly without ever looking back. "I really like your hair," I said. “It looks soft." That’s about when it got…..weird. He sort of half turned and glared back me, and I could tell I was pissing him off. His eyes told me to back the hell away, and his lips were pressed together tightly enough to drain the color from them completely. But no good story ever ends with the conflict just defusing. He started to turn back to her. "Wait, don’t be like that," I said. “Lemmie just ask you one question…" "What!" he said in that you-have-clearly-gone-too-far voice that is part of the freshmen year finals at the school of machismo. And I’m not exactly a hundred percent sure why I didn’t call it a day at that point, but…..maybe I just love turning the screw to see what happens. I gave him the bedroomy-est eyes I could muster. “What’s your name?” Right now I’m sitting here typing out this story, and I’m still not entirely sure why I’m not nursing a fat lip or a black eye. Because that obviously made him so mad that I still am not sure why it didn’t come to blows. There are cliches about eyes flaring and rage behind someones eyes and shit like that that are so overdone. But it really does look like that. When someone gets violent, their eyes just kind of “pop” with intention—pupils dilate, eyelids widen. And his did. Even sitting down he was clearly bigger than me and I was pretty sure he was kind of muscular too, so at that moment I was figuring I was probably going to need an ice pack and sympathy sex from my girlfriend by day’s end. "DUDE," he shouted. “I’M NOT GAY." That’s when I dropped the bedroom eyes and switched to a normal voice. “Oh well I could see not being interested didn’t matter to you when you were hitting on her, so I just thought that’s how you rolled.”

Writing About Writing (And Occasionally Some Writing): Changing The Creepy Guy Narrative (via veruca-assault)

instant reblog

(via koi-ms)

All the awards to this guy. I’ve resorted to just glaring like I want to flay the skin off them and growling out, “Fuck off.” For some reason, a simple ‘No, I’m not interested’ doesn’t get the message across.

(via cumberrage)

[freddietattledonme]

[freddietattledonme]

“It’s true, Miss Hobbs, that you have no reason to trust me yet,” Freddie says. “Except that I believe when you think it over you will find I have nothing to gain by deceiving you.”

She paces slowly around the room as she speaks to alleviate some of the tension...

[freddietattledonme]

     Freddie turns slowly towards Abigail and smiles, feels her lips drawing back over bared teeth like a lion about to rip into a downed gazelle. She has no intentions to destroy Abigail (though she could if it came to it, and she has ruined people before), but is merely amused at having won her over so easily.

     "As much as what you know about me might seem otherwise, money is not what I'm greedy for, Miss Hobbs," she says. "Think about how you perceive the world. Who decides how you perceive it, and are you quite sure that your perceptions are your own? I would say no, not at all. The people who tell the stories decide how you will understand them, the reporters, like me. Often the only remaining evidence of history is the written accounts of what happen, and they have the power to tell us what the history was."

     Freddie stops talking a moment, pausing to catch her breath before she gets too worked up in her monologue. It's not often she has a chance to explain herself to someone like this, and for some reason she finds this frightened-yet-determined-looking Abigail the perfect confidante. Despite this, she checks herself and lowers her tone back to one of cool calm.

     "What I'm saying is that I have the power to create your history. And it seems you're up for it," she gives a reassuring smile, "so all that's left is for you to decide what you want your history to be."

     She writes down her number in neat, curling script on a notepad she keeps in her coat pocket, and rips off the page.

     "Give me a call whenever you're ready. I'll always be there to talk -- after all, if you decide we should work together then we really ought to be friends."

     Freddie flashes her one more friendly but reserved smile and steps out of the room without another word. Now it's time to let her words work their magic.

[freddietattledonme]

Freddie Lounds is having a hard time containing her excitement, which is exceedingly unusual. She is known for letting no emotions show besides “pure evil” (someone actually told her that once), but now she is staring at her reflection in her rear view mirror as she...

[freddietattledonme]

     "It's true, Miss Hobbs, that you have no reason to trust me yet," Freddie says. "Except that I believe when you think it over you will find I have nothing to gain by deceiving you."

     She paces slowly around the room as she speaks to alleviate some of the tension that built up as they both waited in perfect stillness. She sees Abigail's resolve faltering, and knows that she must carefully walk the fine line between creating a maternal connection to appeal to Abigail's need for support, and appearing as a challenge, which she knows is the only way to keep the girl invested.

     "Even if I were to confer with you and then turn my back and write a story incriminating you in your father's crimes, that would hardly be of use to my career. The public believes you guilty; I gain no readers by affirming what they already think."

     Freddie is looking out the window calmly, no evidence on her face of just having laid out the last of the cards she has to play. Her expression is serene. The reflection of a crow flying by passes briefly across the blue of her eyes.

     "In other words," she continues, "you and I both profit if I write a story claiming your innocence. If I get my evidence straight from the source and balance it with enough emotional appeal, I think your life has a chance of being a lot easier once you leave the hospital. Have you thought about leaving much? The view from this window is lovely, I probably wouldn't mind seeing this courtyard every day. Quite a lot of walls thought, aren't there?"

     Freddie turns and faces Abigail after that, to solidify the ominous tone of what she just said. Better get that girl thinking about how she's going to survive in a world that wants to see her dead. Freddie can already see that fear might be the only way to make this young lady respond.

[freddietattledonme]

Freddietattledonme: Aparticularlychattylamb

     Freddie Lounds is having a hard time containing her excitement, which is exceedingly unusual. She is known for letting no emotions show besides "pure evil" (someone actually told her that once), but now she is staring at her reflection in her rear view mirror as she idles in the parking lot of the Port Haven Psychiatric Facility, steeling her expression into one of detached interest. Nothing more. She will not let this one get away.

     When she is sure she is under control, Freddie slips out of the car and into the parking lot, practicing a sure-footed, clinical walk on the asphalt. She makes it past the front desk and gets instructions to the correct room without incident. The fake ID was almost unnecessary, Freddie thinks as she smiles to herself. The nurse at the front desk had given her the once-over, and Freddie knew she was home safe when the woman spotted her Dansko Clogs. Doctors wear Danskos, and once Freddie figured that out she had bought a pair and used them to sneak into hospitals under the name "Dr. Lounds" ever since. People see those shoes and their assumptions carry her through effortlessly.

     Freddie goes straight through the building, getting lost only once, and takes a deep breath once she reaches the correct door. She raises a fist and taps twice, sharply. She hears an affirmation from inside, and enters. The room is light and airy, and the young woman sitting upright in bed in a white hospital gown looks almost ethereal. Well, except for the expression on her face, which is a mix of apprehension and utter animosity. Freddie likes her immediately.

     "Abigail Hobbs. My name is Freddie Lounds. I'm a reporter." Freddie steps through the door but doesn't close it behind her, approaches the end of the bed but does not extend a hand to shake. She has already picked up the signals Abigail is giving and designed her actions accordingly. "I know what you have been through, and survived, was awful. Well actually, I can't even pretend to understand. I have never experienced such trauma. Few people have. It must be hard, isn't it? To have people pretending to understand you, day after day, when really they have no idea."

     Freddie sees this is working. Abigail, who before was staring out a window unresponsively, is now looking towards her with a furrowed brow.  "I don't know your trauma, Abigail, but I do know doctors. Their whole job is pretending they know what they're talking about." She throws in a cynical laugh and a knowing smile. "I'm here to tell your story, Abigail. No lies, no pretending. Just telling the world the truth. Your truth."

[hannibal-tfln]

[so-i-was-lost]

Will Graham’s “Freddie Lounds Face" appreciation doodle

[freddietattledonme]

UGHHH COURTNEY YOU ARE MY WOMAN

[freddietattledonme]

Freddie Lounds is sitting at her desk in the dark, her face illuminated in a harsh blue shade by her computer scene. She is not happy. She has been searching the internet for hours, trying to find a gruesome murder or two to put up on her blog. Preferably in the US, preferably on the East Coast:…

[deactivatedx324623]

Will is about to call Beverly’s name when his cell phone begins to ring. The noise was piercing and it was making him feel as if his brain was rattling in his head. Why was it that everybody felt the need to call him today?

He holds a finger up, signaling to Beverly to hold on as he exists for the hallway. 

Flipping his phone open, Will looks at an unfamiliar phone number. He was about to ignore the call when he realizes that it was possible that Dr. Lecter was on the line. He has yet to enter the doctor’s number into his cellphone, so it was very much a possibility. Either way, Will needs to take this call fast. Class starts in a few minutes and he still needs to talk to Beverly.

"Hello?"

[freddietattledonme]

"Hello, is this Will Graham? My name’s Freddie Lounds, I’m a reporter," Freddie answers. She could hear the impatience in his voice when he answered: she will have to do this fast. “I’m wondering if I could interview you. I’m doing a piece on the psychological toll agents experience when they return to the field after time off."

Of course that’s complete bull. “Psychological toll" is nothing more than a heavy-handed euphemism for “Will Graham’s particular brand of crazy", and if he’s as smart as she thinks he is he will pick up on that pretty quickly. She doesn’t mind if he does. Interviewees who are able to figure out what she is really interviewing them for — drama, gore, and more drama — tend to be more candid, anyway. Freddie loves candid.

[deactivatedx324623]

The instant Will hears the name, he imagines a harpy, the dangerous half woman, half bird of Greek mythology. Harpies were disturbingly ugly and were known to steal food. While Freddie Lounds is attractive on the outside, her face framed by fiery curls, there was nothing but ugliness underneath her pale skin. Just like harpies, Freddie goes to any length to get what she wants. But instead of snatching food, she wants a story, whether it is true or not.

Will replies before Freddie even finishes her sentence. “No comment." Will isn’t stupid. “The Tattler" was always stacked with the other tabloid newspapers and magazines at every checkout counter at any supermarket. It was trash and its stories put some good men and women out of their jobs.

Will should just leave it at that, but he’s having a hard day and it just feels so good to take it out on someone else. “Meddling in this sort of business is incredibly dangerous, especially for those whose stories you’re trying to twist." Will knows he should stop, but he is on a roll. "Real reporters have employers who care about what happens to their employees. You, on the other hand, can wind up in a ditch and the only person who will recognize your body is me." And with that, Will hung up.

[freddietattledonme]

"Thank you, Mr. Graham," Freddie says, though she knows he has already hung up. That was very candid, she thinks. Carelessly candid.

Freddie is not rattled by the harshness of Graham's words. She has heard much, much worse, and any reporter, no matter how controversial their writings, must develop a thick skin. She learned a long time ago not to obsess over thoughts of revenge. Going after one person in particular because they offended her usually means losing sight of other, more important stories.

However she is not one to turn down an opportunity for revenge when it's presented to her on a silver platter. Freddie smiles to herself and thanks Graham with false courtesy in her head. He just gave her exactly the story she was looking for.

After a few hours of searching and several phone calls, Freddie has everything she needs. She writes quickly, as she always does when she has an idea. Her final story is designed to make Mr. Graham, and everyone he works with, cringe.

        Has the FBI's Desperation Led to a Psycho on the Field?

Her story plumbs the depths of Will Graham's career, the parts he thought would never be made public. It includes the circumstances (although somewhat dramatized) of how he had previously left field work, which involved him walking out of a crime scene and refusing to return. She has a quote from a local police officer who had seen him work, who said: "I saw him go stand in the middle of the crime scene and close his eyes and just sort of freeze, you know? And after a while he came out of that looking all shaken and he could tell you exactly what the killer was doing. But afterwards he looked different, somehow, like he had let the madness in and he couldn't get it out. I don't think he ever got the madness out." Then, of course, she includes Graham's chilling words to her, an innocent reporter just looking for an interview: You, on the other hand, can wind up in a ditch and the only person who will recognize your body is me.

The premise of her story is simple, that the FBI's incompetence has reached a level so awful that they have to bring a half-mad, potentially homicidal agent back out of the desk job at the bureau to which he had been reassigned for bad behavior. She knows the real circumstances are probably much more complicated, but she has a beef with Jack Crawford as well and she'll screw him over any chance she gets.

Feddie dashes downstairs to the local coffee shop and orders some kind of chocolate-y coffee thing that she only treats herself to occasionally. She enjoys the bittersweet flavor of the first sip as she hits the button on the screen which reads "Publish".

[freddietattledonme]

Freddie Lounds is sitting at her desk in the dark, her face illuminated in a harsh blue shade by her computer scene. She is not happy. She has been searching the internet for hours, trying to find a gruesome murder or two to put up on her blog. Preferably in the US, preferably on the East Coast:…

[deactivatedx324623]

Will is about to call Beverly’s name when his cell phone begins to ring. The noise was piercing and it was making him feel as if his brain was rattling in his head. Why was it that everybody felt the need to call him today?

He holds a finger up, signaling to Beverly to hold on as he exists for the hallway. 

Flipping his phone open, Will looks at an unfamiliar phone number. He was about to ignore the call when he realizes that it was possible that Dr. Lecter was on the line. He has yet to enter the doctor’s number into his cellphone, so it was very much a possibility. Either way, Will needs to take this call fast. Class starts in a few minutes and he still needs to talk to Beverly.

"Hello?"

[freddietattledonme]

"Hello, is this Will Graham? My name's Freddie Lounds, I'm a reporter," Freddie answers. She could hear the impatience in his voice when he answered: she will have to do this fast. "I'm wondering if I could interview you. I'm doing a piece on the psychological toll agents experience when they return to the field after time off."

Of course that's complete bull. "Psychological toll" is nothing more than a heavy-handed euphemism for "Will Graham's particular brand of crazy", and if he's as smart as she thinks he is he will pick up on that pretty quickly. She doesn't mind if he does. Interviewees who are able to figure out what she is really interviewing them for -- drama, gore, and more drama -- tend to be more candid, anyway. Freddie loves candid.

[freddietattledonme]

Freddie Tattled on Me: Detrimental Designs

Freddie Lounds is sitting at her desk in the dark, her face illuminated in a harsh blue shade by her computer scene. She is not happy. She has been searching the internet for hours, trying to find a gruesome murder or two to put up on her blog. Preferably in the US, preferably on the East Coast: that's where the majority of her readers are, and local murders always feel so much more real. Even more so if the reader has some connection to the victim or the perpetrator; she often gets fevered e-mails in response to her articles, where people spill out their personal knowledge and express that they are quite horrified with an amount of zeal that says otherwise. Their horror makes them feel alive, like they have just narrowly escaped the grim reaper's scythe. She does not blame them.

 God, what she would give for a good mutilation. A dismemberment, even. The real carnage is what gets people going, that's where the money is at. Why are all the psychos in remote locations where details of the crime are either destroyed by incompetent police forces or just not released? If those people had any manners at all, they would come up to Baltimore and do their slaughtering. That would make her job so much easier.

A short article, barely more than a blurb even, catches Freddie's eye.

                          FBI Teacher Returns to the Field

She skims it quickly, and a name seems familiar: Will Graham. Where has she heard it before?

Oh. Oh. This, this is interesting. This is the Will Graham of the legendary empathy, the Will Graham who had quit working on the field several years before. Freddie Lounds knows a goldmine when she sees it, and this is a goldmine. His bouncing around between positions in the FBI is a clear sign of instability. And now he is back out on the field.

She is going to have fun with this.

After a few minutes of database searching, Freddie has located Graham's phone number. It wasn't that hard, and barely illegal. She leaves a message on his phone: Hello Mr. Graham, this is Freddie Lounds. I'm a reporter and I was wondering if I could interview you for a piece I'm doing. Please give me a call back when you get the chance, thanks.

She hopes Graham calls her back, but if he doesn't she'll find out all the information she needs on her own, and he won't be able to control what she prints. No kidding, she'll write whatever she wants anyway. Freddie smiles to herself. She may have just the story that her readers will enjoy.