Chapter 5: THE CALL
The email was brief and formal. Mr. Mikaelson: Your consulting services have been requested for an ongoing federal investigation. Please contact the undersigned at your earliest convenience to discuss engagement terms. Authorization: Special Agent Jack Crawford, Behavioral Analysis Unit.
I read it three times, sitting at my desk with cold pasta forgotten beside me. The timestamp showed it had arrived four hours ago, while I was elbow-deep in evidence at the morgue. Jack Crawford had reached out while I was preparing to meet him.
The universe had a sense of humor.
I composed a response—professional, interested, available—and sent it before I could overthink. Then I opened a new browser tab and searched for everything public about Jack Crawford.
The results painted a picture I already knew from meta-knowledge but needed to see confirmed. Decorated agent. Behavioral Analysis Unit chief. High case closure rate. His photograph showed a Black man in his fifties, silver at his temples, eyes that had seen too much death to be surprised by any of it.
The articles didn't mention his wife's illness. They didn't mention the pressure he put on his team, the way he used Will Graham like a weapon without considering the damage. They showed the public face—competent, driven, successful.
The private face was more complicated. I'd need to navigate both.
My phone rang at 8 AM the next morning. Unknown number, Virginia area code.
"Mikaelson."
"Mr. Mikaelson, this is Jack Crawford." The voice was deep, measured, carrying authority even through phone static. "Thank you for your quick response. I understand you specialize in crime scene reconstruction."
"That's correct."
"Your reputation precedes you. Dr. Martinez speaks highly of your work, despite some... personality conflicts."
I almost smiled. "I'm an acquired taste."
"Most useful people are." A pause, papers shuffling in the background. "I have a case that requires unconventional forensic analysis. Multiple crime scenes, complex staging, no clear evidentiary throughline. I need someone who sees what others miss."
"The Minnesota situation."
"You've been following the news."
"It's my job to pay attention." I stood, pacing to the window. The harbor glittered in morning light. "What exactly are you looking for, Agent Crawford?"
"Fresh perspective. Our standard forensic team is excellent, but they think in standard ways. I'm told you approach scenes differently—that you can reconstruct events from physical evidence that others overlook."
My reputation, built on Adam's abilities that I was only beginning to understand. "I have methods that produce results. The mechanics are proprietary."
"I don't care about mechanics. I care about catching the man killing these girls before he kills more." His voice hardened. "Can you help or not?"
I watched a boat cutting across the water, white wake spreading behind it. "When do you need me?"
"Yesterday. Can you be at the Baltimore field office this afternoon? Two o'clock. I'll be there for preliminary meetings before we deploy to Minnesota."
"I'll be there."
"Good." The line clicked dead.
I lowered the phone and let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I was in. First contact established. The path toward Hannibal Lecter had officially begun.
The FBI Baltimore Field Office occupied a glass-and-concrete building in Woodlawn, surrounded by security checkpoints and paranoid architecture. I arrived at 1:45, wearing one of Adam's professional suits—charcoal gray, conservative cut, nothing memorable. The goal was competence without flash.
Security processed my credentials with bureaucratic efficiency. A young agent escorted me to a conference room on the third floor, offered coffee, and left me alone with my thoughts.
The coffee was exceptional. Dark roast, properly extracted, no hint of the burnt staleness that plagued most institutional pots. I drank slowly, appreciating the quality while reviewing my mental preparation.
Jack Crawford entered at exactly 2 PM. In person, he was more imposing than his photographs suggested—broad shoulders, military bearing, a handshake that tested grip strength. His eyes swept over me in a single assessing glance that catalogued everything from my shoes to my haircut.
"Mr. Mikaelson." He gestured to a chair. "Please."
"Agent Crawford." I sat, setting my coffee aside. "I appreciate the opportunity."
"Don't appreciate anything yet. I need to know if you're worth the investment." He took the chair across from me, spreading a file folder on the table between us. "What do you know about the Minnesota Shrike case?"
"Eight missing girls over several months. Bodies haven't been recovered. The nickname suggests avian predation imagery—shrikes impale their prey on thorns. You're looking for someone who displays his kills."
Crawford's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture. Interest, maybe. Or wariness. "That's more than the news coverage provides."
"I extrapolate. It's what you're hiring me for."
"I'm hiring you for crime scene analysis. The profiling is handled by other consultants."
Will Graham. The name hung unspoken between us.
"Fair enough." I leaned forward slightly. "Tell me what you need analyzed, and I'll tell you if I can deliver."
He walked me through the case. Eight girls, ages 15-22, disappeared from various Minnesota locations over eight months. No bodies recovered, but evidence suggested violence—blood evidence at some disappearance sites, signs of struggle. The FBI suspected a serial predator with a specific victim preference: similar appearance, all young women with dark hair, similar builds.
The Shrike. Garret Jacob Hobbs. I knew his name, his face, his methodology. I knew his daughter would become both victim and accomplice. I knew Will Graham would shoot him nine times in his own kitchen.
None of that showed on my face.
"You have scene evidence?" I asked.
"From two sites. The others were too clean—he learned from early mistakes." Crawford slid photographs across the table. "What can you tell me from these?"
I studied the images. A parking lot with a bloodstain. A hiking trail with disturbed vegetation. Standard forensic documentation—measurements, markers, wide shots and close-ups. To normal eyes, they showed very little.
To my eyes... I didn't know yet. I hadn't tested Scene Reading with photographs. The morgue experiments suggested direct contact produced stronger results. These images might show me nothing at all.
"I'll need to visit the actual scenes," I said carefully. "Photographs provide context, but my methods require physical presence."
Crawford nodded, unsurprised. "That can be arranged. I'm assembling a team to deploy to Minnesota within the week. You'll have scene access, evidence access, and direct communication with the investigative leads." He paused. "There are conditions."
"Name them."
"You report to me. Everything you find, every theory you develop, comes through my office first. I don't want consultants going rogue or leaking to media." His eyes hardened. "This case has attracted attention from people who would sensationalize these girls' deaths for ratings. I won't allow that."
"Understood."
"You'll be working alongside other specialists. Some of them have... unconventional methods. I expect professionalism regardless of personal opinions about approach."
Will Graham, again. Crawford was preparing me for the empathy readings, the crime scene theater, the things Will did that made normal investigators uncomfortable.
"I can be professional."
"Good." He extended his hand. "Welcome to the team, Mr. Mikaelson. My assistant will have your credentials and briefing materials ready by end of day. Report to Quantico Monday morning, 8 AM, for the full team meeting."
I shook his hand, feeling the weight of the moment. This was the threshold. Once I crossed into Crawford's world, there was no going back.
"I'll be there."
He walked me to the security desk, where a young woman handed me a manila envelope. Inside: temporary consultant badge, preliminary case documents, travel authorizations. My photograph stared up from the badge—Adam's face, my face now, looking competent and unremarkable.
The drive home felt different. The city scrolled past my windows with new significance. I wasn't just Adam Mikaelson, freelance forensic consultant, anymore. I was FBI-adjacent, stepping into a story I knew would end in blood and betrayal and a monster in a cage.
But maybe, with enough preparation, I could change how it ended.
I pinned the consultant badge to my jacket when I got home, looking at it in the mirror. The photo was slightly blurred, the lamination already scratching at the edges. Standard government issue.
First step complete. I was inside.
Now I needed to meet the empath who would become either my greatest ally or my greatest liability.
Monday couldn't come fast enough.
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