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🕑 Added 2025-07-28 08:45:36 +0000 UTCAnatomy of a Killer
Chapter 103 – Meeting with the Psychiatrist
Jane, new to all of this—cases, meetings, and the less-than-motivational talks of cruel killers—barely understood that the FBI doesn’t prepare you for what truly matters.
They teach you how to profile murderers, how to read blood like a language… But they don’t teach you how to read the silences of those who will be your partners, your superiors, your friends.
And Larry, who was to be her partner, had many silences. Perfect silences. Cold as a corpse.
This made Jane think—deeply.
Ever since I was assigned to his unit, they told me I would learn from one of the best.
They didn’t mention that I’d also learn to feel his wounds.
Larry doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He barely blinks.
When he speaks, it’s as if he’s reading from a script he wrote long before anyone ever asked the question. Every word is precise. Every pause, intentional.
And yet… that’s not what unsettles me.
What unsettles me is what he doesn’t show.
Today, while presenting his theory about “the Judge,” I noticed something curious.
There was no anger.
No compassion for the victims. Not even intellectual satisfaction in dismantling such a complex criminal mind.
Just… emptiness. An elegant emptiness. Sophisticated. Like the silence before a gunshot. Maybe that’s what it takes to be good at this.
Or maybe… that’s what’s left when you become too good.
I’ve wondered what Larry has seen to become like this.
What he’s done. What he’s allowed. Or who he’s let die.
And still, I want to learn from him.
Because deep down, very deep down, I admire his clarity. I admire the way he stands before chaos and reduces it to patterns.
To profiles. To cold truths.
But I can’t help but wonder… Am I here to become a better agent? Or to become someone who no longer feels anything at all?
If I stay near Larry for too long… I might not just learn to think like him.
I might start to become him…
…
“How did you see the meeting?” Larry, already outside, walked beside Jane, who was still fixated on her personal notes.
“Intense…” Jane had never been in a place where the people meant to solve a problem were instead fighting to prove who was right.
Larry, who knew exactly why such confrontations happened, said, “That teaches you something important—don’t trust your fellow FBI agents… Many of them aren’t your friends. They’ll only see you as a stepping stone to climb the ladder.”
“We have to survive…”
“That’s what we do. And in the meantime, we get the job done,” Larry said, checking the time.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Jane was surprised to see Larry walking toward the elevator.
“I have an appointment with the psychiatrist. Criminal profiler problems.” Larry needed to clear the growing stain on his record once and for all.
If he didn’t comply with his superior’s requests, he might be sent somewhere he definitely didn’t want to go. That’s why he would visit the agency-recommended psychiatrist—to convince that person that he was fine with his work.
At least, that’s what Larry hoped—he believed he could do it, if the person he spoke to was less perceptive than him.
“Well, good luck with that.” Jane turned to go find food on her own.
Watching her leave, Larry kept thinking the same thing—Jane was the exact opposite of what was needed for the post she’d been assigned to.
“She feels too much, shows too much, and seems like a very stubborn woman when it comes to the things she obsesses over.” Larry could see similarities between Jane and Debra, although his current partner seemed far more charming.
Jane was here to do things right—very different from Debra, who only wanted to stand out and raise her father’s legacy.
Their priorities were different—and to Larry, Jane was much better.
“I just hope she’s not a burden.” Larry, who had been driving for ten minutes, finally arrived at his psychiatrist’s office.
He knew little about the man who would try to get inside his head, but he wouldn’t be any different from the rest he’d spoken to.
“You must be Larry Luk. Pleased to meet you. I’m Dr. Hannibal Lecter, assigned as your psychiatrist.” Hannibal extended his hand to greet the silent man before him.
Larry gave a slight nod and said, while following Hannibal into his office, “Let’s begin right away. I still have a lot of work to process.”
Hannibal Lecter’s office smelled of varnished wood, aged leather… and something else. Something almost imperceptible, like a low note of sulfur.
Larry noticed it immediately, but didn’t mention it. After briefly surveying the surroundings, he sat where Hannibal indicated and waited.
Hannibal sat with the slowness of someone who is never in a hurry. He observed Larry the way one studies a painting with history—with eyes that don’t just look, but read.
“Tell me, Dr. Luk…” With a soft voice, almost a whisper, Hannibal asked, “Do you know why crows don’t fly at night?”
Knowing that these sessions were just another way to study him, Larry replied, “Because there’s nothing they want to see in the dark.”
Hannibal offered a nearly invisible smile, as if the answer had sparked a delicious thought. “Interesting… Though some would say it’s in the darkness where they find what the light denies them. The same could be said of minds—yours, mine, those you pursue. Have you found anything in yours lately, Agent?”
Larry looked away for a fraction of a second, then stared directly at him. “Sometimes, the echo gets confused with your own voice. But no, Doctor. My mind is still functional.”
“Functional…” Hannibal repeated, as if savoring the word. He then walked to the window, leaving his glass of water untouched on the desk. “Machines are also functional. And yet… they don’t bleed when they break.”
Larry followed him with his eyes. “Nor do they complain. Nor ask why they were broken.”
“And you, Larry?” Hannibal asked, turning slowly. “Were you broken… or built that way?”
“Does the difference matter?” Larry’s voice was firm, but not aggressive.
Hannibal looked at him with a mix of fascination and warning, as if standing before a wounded wolf that could still bite.
“It matters… If you wish to rebuild yourself. Or if you prefer to stay intact—even as you rot from the inside.”
Larry crossed one leg over the other. It wasn’t a gesture of comfort, but a way to assert that wherever he sat, that place belonged to him. “I’ve survived a long time without sentimentality. The FBI doesn’t pay me to feel.”
“No…” Hannibal made a note and added, “But they do expect you to understand those who do. To think like them. To catch them… before they kill again.”
A thick silence settled between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was expectant.
“Tell me, Larry… when was the last time you dreamed?”
Larry held his gaze, recalling the dreams where he killed—but once he became a killer, he never dreamed again. “I don’t dream. I sleep.”
“Ah…” Hannibal narrowed his eyes. “Then it’s true what they say. Some don’t sleep to rest—but to hide. What are you hiding from?”
“Nothing.” Larry answered instantly, then added bluntly, “Just from questions that don’t help solve a case.”
Hannibal chuckled softly, like someone enjoying a private joke among cannibal colleagues. “Then don’t worry, Larry. I won’t interrogate you any further. Not today. But remember this: the wolf who always hunts alone… also dies alone. And sometimes, of hunger.”
Larry stood up, unhurried. “Wolves in a pack don’t live longer. They just make more noise before dying.”
“Touché…” Hannibal tilted his head slightly. “This has been… enlightening, Dr. Luk. Let’s meet again soon. I’m curious to see how long you can last before the cage rusts from within.”
Larry walked out without looking back. Not because he didn’t care.
But because he knew… if he did, Hannibal would notice.
And with men like him, details were confessions.
And Larry… wasn’t ready to confess anything.
