Hannibal Rising by Thomas Harris

Popil said.
    “Do you want to question the burglar first?”
    “He does not interest me, but I want you to run him. And I may whack him a few times in front of the boy. Do you follow me?”
    On the downslope of the road leading into the village, a motorbike coasted with its lights out, its engine off. The rider wore black coveralls and a black balaclava. Silently the bike rounded a corner at the far side of the deserted square, disappeared briefly behind a postal van parked in front of the post office and moved on, the rider pedaling hard, not starting the engine before the upslope out of the village.
    Inspector Popil and Hannibal sat in the commandant’s office. Inspector Popil read the label on the commandant’s bottle of Clanzoflat and considered taking a dose.
    Then he put the roll of polygraph tape on the desk and pushed it with his finger. The tape unrolled its line of many small peaks. The peaks looked to him like the foothills of a mountain obscured by cloud. “Did you kill the butcher, Hannibal?”
    “May I ask you a question?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s a long way to come from Paris. Do you specialize in the deaths of butchers?”
    “My specialty is war crimes, and Paul Momund was suspected in several. War crimes do not end with the war, Hannibal.” Popil paused to read the advertising on each facet of the ashtray. “Perhaps I understand your situation better than you think.”
    “What is my situation, Inspector?”
    “You were orphaned in the war. You lived in an institution, living inside yourself, your family dead. And at last, at last your beautiful stepmother made up for all of it.” Working for the bond, Popil put his hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. “The very scent of her takes away the smell of the camp. And then the butcher spews filth at her. If you killed him, I could understand. Tell me. Together we could explain to a magistrate …”
    Hannibal moved back in his chair, away from Popil’s touch.
    “The very scent of her takes away the smell of the camp?
May I ask if you compose verse, Inspector?”
    “Did you kill the butcher?”
    “Paul Momund killed himself. He died of stupidity and rudeness.”
    Inspector Popil had considerable experience and knowledge of the awful, and this was the voice Popil had been listening for; it had a faintly different timbre and was surprising coming from the body of a boy.
    This specific wavelength he had not heard before, but he recognized it as Other. It had been some timesince he felt the thrill of the hunt, the prehensile quality of the opposing brain. He felt it in his scalp and forearms. He lived for it.
    Part of him wished the burglar outside had killed the butcher. Part of him considered how lonely and in need of company Lady Murasaki might be with the boy in an institution.
    “The butcher was fishing. He had blood and scales on his knife, but he had no fish. The chef tells me you brought in a splendid fish for dinner. Where did you get the fish?”
    “By fishing, Inspector. We keep a baited line in the water behind the boathouse. I’ll show you if you like. Inspector, did you choose war crimes?”
    “Yes.”
    “Because you lost family in the war?”
    “Yes.”
    “May I ask how?”
    “Some in combat. Some were shipped east.”
    “Did you catch who did it?”
    “No.”
    “But they were Vichy—men like the butcher.”
    “Yes.”
    “Can we be perfectly honest with each other?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Are you sorry to see Paul Momund dead?”
    On the far side of the square the village barber, M. Rubin, came off a leafy side street for his nightly round of the square with his small terrier. M. Rubin,after talking with his customers all day, continued talking to his dog in the evening. He pulled the dog away from the grassy strip in front of the post office.
    “You should have performed your duty on the lawn of Felipe, where no one was looking,” M. Rubin said. “Here you might incur a fine. You have no money. It would fall to me to