From: lounds@tattlecrime.com
To: crawfordj@fbi.gov

Take a look at this. https://www.instagram.com/therealmurderhusbands/

From: crawfordj@fbi.gov
To: lounds@tattlecrime.com

Idiots on the internet make fanpages for serial killers these days. Surprised this is news to you, Freddie.

From: lounds@tattlecrime.com
To: crawfordj@fbi.gov

That’s not a fanpage. Look at Graham’s face. Scars I’ve never seen before.

From: crawfordj@fbi.gov
To: lounds@tattlecrime.com

A dozen artistically filtered close-ups of Will Graham’s face don’t prove anything. They’re probably all photoshopped from the creeper photos on your goddamn website.

From: lounds@tattlecrime.com
To: crawfordj@fbi.gov

Suit yourself.

***

Jack leans back in his chair, and clicks over to the page Freddie sent him again.

It’s exactly like all the others. He’d thought they were dying down, and maybe they are, but there’s still plenty of crazies to go around, and the legend of Hannibal the Cannibal and hs FBI husband toppling over that cliff and surviving is apparently tenacious. So there are fanpages, yes. They’re full of lovingly edited mugshots and zoomed-in closeups of Will’s eyes, with the occasional really quite impressive editing effort of Hannibal and Will’s faces imposed on the bodies of porn stars.

It’s all tasteless junk. Freddie should know better than to get caught up in it, but then, tasteless junk is Freddie’s specialty. The fanpages are, in a way, the spiritual successor to her site. Though even Jack has to admit that Tattlecrime is, very occasionally, factual.

This, on the other hand, is just garbage. Jack closes the browser window, erases the site from his history— not that that does much good in obscuring your embarrassing browsing history when you literally work at the FBI— and puts it out of his mind.

***

“Hannibal— fuck off, I’m covered in fish gunk.”

“Mmm. I see that. Tilt your head a little.” Hannibal leans in, and Will tries to bat him away at the same time as he deposits a fistul of guts on the ground beside him. Hannibal just dodges Will’s slimy hands and continues shoving the camera in his face, managing to get what Will assumes is an extremely unflattering shot of Will with fish guts in one hand and a knife in the other, grimacing as he waves his arms uselessly.

“What are you going to do with that one? Claim Molly took it?”

“Of course not,” says Hannibal. “The art of it is to not say too much. A black-and-white filter and a single black heart should do nicely.”

“Jesus.” Will seriously considers throwing the last mushy scrapings of fish innards at Hannibal, but decides against it on the grounds that then Hannibal will use it as an excuse to drag him on another shopping trip to replace the ruined shirt. “Who’s even looking at these pictures?”

“I don’t know them personally,” shrugs Hannibal. “But…” he clicks over to the app, squinting at his own profile. “One-point-three million people are hanging on my every post. You don’t want to disappoint them, do you, Will?”

Will rolls his eyes. “Stop making shit up, Hannibal.”

Hannibal just shrugs. “How would you like the fish prepared?”

***

From: lounds@tattlecrime.com
To: crawfordj@fbi.gov

https://www.instagram.com/p/B2IPNOdHu1t/ Go ahead, tell me this isn’t Graham. Alive.

From: crawfordj@fbi.gov
To: lounds@tattlecrime.com

Jesus Christ, Lounds. You can’t send pornography to an FBI agent at his work email address. And in case you’ve forgotten, you’re the only one who invaded Will’s privacy enough after that damn stabbing to know what his cock looks like.

So, if we must: That is not Will Graham, that is an amateur porn twink with a photoshopped belly scar.

From: lounds@tattlecrime.com
To: crawfordj@fbi.gov

Language, Agent Crawford.

From: crawfordj@fbi.gov
To: lounds@tattlecrime.com

Fuck off, Freddie. And quit sending me this shit. Will died to take down Hannibal, we don’t need to disrespect his memory like this.

***

Hannibal is seated at the computer, the fan whirring away as several layers of encryption and virtual private networks connect him to the internet.

Will stands in the doorway, frowning. “Is that thing overheating?” He asks. “Do we need a new computer?”

“No,” answers Hannibal shortly. “It’s merely running many programs at once. It’s not a simple matter, to post photos to the Internet with one’s location completely undetectable.”

Will leans in, squinting at the photo Hannibal has open in another window, and winces. “Or, maybe you could just skip the whole thing, and not post photos of my bare ass to your goddamn instagram account.”

“Don’t be so crude, Will.” Hannibal clicks through filters, debating the relative merits of a saturated look that makes the red handprints on Will’s asscheeks stand out all the more, or a pale gauzy effect that makes the scene seem almost dreamlike. “It’s not pornography. It’s art.”

As it’s clearly a hopeless case, Will straightens up and is about to get the hell out of there when he adds, “If only you’d cottoned on to this years ago, you would have put Freddie Lounds out of business.”

“Oh, I think I’m very much keeping her in business,” says Hannibal airily, and Will narrows his eyes. “Did you add Freddie on Instagram?”

Hannibal says nothing.

“Hannibal? Seriously. Who’s looking at these pictures? Alana? Jack?”

“…”

“Fine. I’ll just… post some pictures of my own, then.”

“Mmm,” says Hannibal, patronizing. “Certainly.”

***

From: lounds@tattlecrime.com
To: crawfordj@fbi.gov

https://www.instagram.com/p/G3u23H4Y66F/ Okay, Crawford. The therealmurderhusbands account just posted sixteen photos of dogs in the past hour. You can’t keep denying the evidence that’s right in front of your eyes.

From: lounds@tattlecrime.com
To: crawfordj@fbi.gov

Come on, Crawford. Just admit it.

From: lounds@tattlecrime.com
To: crawfordj@fbi.gov

You never take this long to respond to emails. I’m going to take your silence as an admission that I’m right, and quote you accordingly.

***

He should get in touch with Cyber Crime.

Jack knows that he should definitely, absolutely pass this on to Cyber Crime, and at least have them attempt to trace the profile. And he’s going to do it. Any moment now.

He clicks over to therealmurderhusbands again. There are, indeed, sixteen new photos of dogs posted, and almost as many dogs represented in them. There are dogs splashing in a stream, dogs proudly carrying absurdly large sticks towards the photographer, dogs greedily gobbling sausages, and dogs destroying ridiculous velvet slippers and absurdly expensive leather Oxfords.

He’s about to copy the link. It’s a new lead. They haven’t had a new lead on Hannibal and Will in years. Enough time that Jack had almost started to believe himself when he said that they were dead.

Instead, he mouses over a photo of Will— and he has to admit now that it is definitely Will, free of photo editing other than the native filters that Instagram provides— naked and spread-eagled, arms and legs bound to the posts of the opulent bed.

He quickly searches the terms of service for the site, and grins.

From: crawfordj@fbi.gov
To: lounds@tattlecrime.com

Fine. Fine, I reported it, Lounds. You’ve been shouting about this goddamn instagram page for months, and nobody’s paid attention to you yet. So you just keep my name out of it, keep reposting their photos and raking in the clicks, and everyone will be happy.

***

“What?”

Hannibal is staring at the screen of his phone, looking positively horrified. “Hannibal,” Will tries again, waving hand in between the screen and Hannibal’s face, “what is it?”

“Someone reported my account for nudity,” says Hannibal, sounding absurdly dignified as he says it. “Apparently such images are against the terms of service. It’s been deleted.

“Even if they’re art?” Will asks mockingly.

All of it, Will,” says Hannibal mournfully. “It’s just gone.”

Will slings an arm around Hannibal’s shoulders. “You can make another one,” he says. “People like pictures of food on there, right?”

***
From: lounds@tattlecrime.com
To: crawfordj@fbi.gov

Have you seen this, Crawford? https://www.instagram.com/nothingvegetarian/