There was no preparing for hearing his name coming out of anyone's mouth, let alone the FBI agent Peter was currently having what passed for a tense but relatively cordial conversation with. The times being what they were with the rise in popularity of true crime, as well as a certain television show made in the not so distant past, his name was admittedly hard to avoid. Peter still tried to avoid any and all media that in any way involved the one thing about Will Graham's life that he had been unable to reconcile. The only person they could never successfully forget.
Hannibal Lecter.
Anytime Peter heard that name on someone else's lips, a ripple of panic instantaneously surged through him, that very specific brand of anxiety more or less dormant until the moment the words 'Hannibal Lecter' reignited them. Nothing else could make Peter falter quite like that.
In this case, Peter had the misfortune of being mid-sip of the coffee that still remained in his cup. Disgustingly cold by this point, but it was something to do with himself while he sat awkwardly in the furnished office of an FBI agent who seemed to have the same tastes for interior decorating that someone else from Will's past once had. Just as his throat was opening to swallow it down, the forbidden words 'Hannibal' and 'Lecter' made their way into his ears from the mouth of the agent sitting across from him and for a moment there was only white noise.
Peter had to catch himself before he spit it all back up, but it was a near thing. The stale coffee became briefly lodged in the back of his throat as he nearly choked on it, only barely managing to swallow it down the right pipe while wincing. A small reaction, to anyone looking on who had no idea just what that name meant to them. Practically minuscule. To anyone who might know something about it, Peter had very nearly stumbled.
Peter gave himself a moment to let his heart rate slow down as he swallowed, now that the threat had passed, forcing himself to laugh around the edges of the cup before abandoning it on the small coffee table in front of him and clearing his throat. If he couldn't get through a conversation because someone had mentioned the name of a man Peter had never met, then he had no business being a writer. Like everything else, it was all in his head.
"With the average, overly informed true crime reader these days, I imagine most of us could probably get away with a murder or two if we really wanted." Probably not the kind of thing one should say to an FBI agent, but Peter's dry remark was as candid as it was a defense mechanism while he was still recovering from his earlier anxiety spike. Like Will, his tendency towards thinly veiled hostility only grew the more cornered he felt. And right now it felt a little like Agent Max Ward was circling him as a shark might circle someone in bloody waters.
"The difference between Bundy and Brackett is that Bundy started screwing up long before the first, and second time he was caught. I agree that killers break their patterns frequently, but from what I've read, Mark Andrew Brackett really didn't give anybody much to go on right up until he left the breadcrumbs behind that got him caught."
Anybody else might have been concerned that they were inadvertently insulting an FBI agent's work on a case, but Peter either didn't realize or didn't care. His tunnel vision was going into overdrive now that Agent Ward was actually engaging him in the very line of conversation he'd been hoping to have.
“Not many men, even serial killers, would have the guts to go after the spouse of an FBI Agent.” Peter could actually only think of one person in particular, and Brackett wasn’t Hannibal by a long shot. Killing pregnant women due to some misplaced mommy issues would be too gauche for him.
"I'm interested in the breadcrumbs because I'm trying to get a clearer picture of the whole pie. Would you be willing to shed some light on that?" Peter unearthed a tape recorder from his bag as he spoke, merely showing Max that it wasn't on as he set it down on the table along with a notepad and pen that he didn't immediately pick up to use. Peter’s mind was a vault, he remembered everything. "For the sake of conversation, of course."