Few was the number that Hannibal Lecter allowed to visit him personally in his special corner of Hell. No, that was incorrect. He’d been a visitor to Hell already. This room, though cramped, lacked its chill and screams. The correct screams. Purgatory. A better name for it. After all, he didn’t plan on spending his entire life here. One day, perhaps, he might finally be free. Though with the capable but mediocre Barney on the payroll, the chances seemed quite unlikely.
Numerous psychiatrists wished to examine him. They believed his mind contained some secret riddle that they could unlock and examine other patients with. An adorable thought if they hadn’t been serious. Their requests had been denied. So, too, had those within the FBI who wished to use his experiences in order to profile criminals all the better.
The only individuals who were permitted to visit him, on the rare occurrences, were genuine students looking to be a doctor or psychiatrist. While he typically only answered them through mail, there were times where one interested him enough that he allowed a small visit. One had to keep one’s social graces strong, after all.
This last request came from a defense attorney. She had not given Barney her name, but the man suggested that she might have a means for reducing his sentence. Or, perhaps, for allowing him further privileges. He had been a good boy as of late, after all. Permission . . . had been granted.
Though his cell was already neat and tidy, he took the extra minute to straighten his work table where he was drawing, from memory, the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore as seen from the ground. Not the best view to take in the great red Dome, but the towering structures were something to behold at the street level.
Standing politely a few feet from the glass, he heard her steps first. Soft. Not the tick-tick-ticking of heels. Interesting. Second, scent. A touch clinical but it didn’t seem to be worn with any great interest. If anything, it masked a certain degree of . . . wildness . . . He hoped this could be associated with the defense attorney, herself, otherwise this was going to be a very dull conversation.
At last, sight. She moved in front of him. Younger, though only by a few years. Ivory skin. Large eyes. A flicker. Excellent bone structure. One might even suggest noble. A tight form. Good skin. Pleasant to look at, at least. “Good afternoon,” he offered her a polite smile, expression giving nothing else away. Nor did he bother with the usual polite introductions. She knew who he was. The question lingered. Who was she?
@tartareus