What an obliging little fish Peter was, offering his cheek for the hook so readily. And what a challenge this aws proving to be, keeping Max’s own cheeks unmoved. The slightest tic could give away the game to a worthy opponent — and Peter was that, almost certainly. But he was also unschooled, giving away more than he intended (whereas Max only intended on giving away exactly the right amount, naturally). That brief flash of irritation before he recovered himself — Max wondered if Peter truly knew where it came from. That the disorientation Max provoked was no mere accident. That it, like everything Max and Hannibal had ever done or would ever do, was deliberate.
A pointless question, when Peter’s ignorance was guaranteed at this stage. He’d attribute it to coincidence, nothing more. Already he was looking forward, looking beyond Max’s carefully chosen echo to decipher its meaning. Ever the detective. The trappings were different this time, but the instincts were the same. Some day Peter's instincts would remind him to look elsewhere. Some day he would turn his head, shift his perspective, and see Max’s words for what they really were. A predator’s tracks in the snow.
Still, Max did allow himself an exasperated laugh that conveyed just how tired he was of Ted Bundy. This was a safe show of emotion; no law enforcement officer Max had ever met talked about Bundy with the hushed, morbidly fascinated tones that the true crime-obsessed still used when discussing the long-dead killer. Incidentally, Bundy also happened to be a topic upon which the persona of Special Agent Max Ward and the killer wearing his person suit completely agreed. The bloodthirsty public never lost interest in Bundy, simply could not consume enough podcasts, documentaries, and books with blazing red titles about him. As a result, Bundy was a constant source of annoyance for Max, who found him to be pedestrian at best. Nothing more than a base animal who left behind a painfully average body of work. Hardly worth a hundred words, let alone the hundreds of thousands dedicated to him every year.
Yet Max had to give Peter credit. The comparison between Bundy and Brackett was an astute one, almost eerily so. Max had barely given Peter anything to work with, yet his remarkable mind made the correct leap in assuming Max’s reason for finding Brackett uninteresting. He didn’t yet have the tools to see the real reason behind the projection, but that he had gotten this close to it on his own was impressive… and not a little threatening.
Good.
“Not really, no,” he answered aloud, maintaining his brusque detachment. “Killers break their patterns all the time. Despite the media’s obsession with brilliant, fictional criminals like Hannibal Lecter,” (he said the name like the throwaway insult it was, grinning inside his skull all the while) “very few of them possess above-average intelligence. As I’m sure you know, most of them are smart enough to get away with murder until they're not. Eventually, they make mistakes. Nine times out of ten, that’s how we catch them. Me and my colleagues here at the Bureau, we’re not seers deciphering elusive prophecies so much as lost boys following breadcrumbs. Bundy’s breadcrumbs got him caught. So did Brackett’s.”
A sliver of personal disgust slipped through Max’s professional mask despite himself (although, of course, it wasn’t). He hid it tidily away to consider Peter closer, finally and reluctantly asking what he could no longer put off (though, of course, he could). “Which begs the question. Why do you think Brackett is worth your precious time, Mr. Graves? What makes him interesting to you?”