Red is a festive color

The family was tucked safely into the adjacent kitchen, with some mint and lemon tea as fuel for their sanity. Detectives were swarming around the place. Jack Crawford was pacing nervously along the corridor, back and forth, trying to reach somebody on the phone. Frederick Chilton, his trusted consulting psychiatrist, was standing right in front of what they’ve agreed to refer to as tableau and ardently wishing for another variant of Merry Christmas for himself. Grave as it was now, it was courtesy of the Chesapeake Ripper and Frederick couldn’t help but notice how the man really tried to get into the festive mood. Red was the festive color, wasn’t it? Sometimes he was wondering if the Chesapeake Ripper knew who Frederick Chilton was. Especially, when looking at another ‘work of art’… Recently there was always some air of gift-giving present in his… work? Would you call it works? Crime scenes, more likely. He swallowed and took a sip from his coffee. His Lungo was still steamy in the thermos cup and expectedly bitter, but all the more energizing. Taking a few more steps forward, Frederick tilted his head to have a better look at… Santa. Well, at least the legs and feet that were motionlessly hanging from the chimney shaft looked like they belonged to Santa Claus. Same clothes, same boots. Dr Chilton leaned forward and tilted his head a little bit more, which allowed him to look up the shaft. He was relieved to see the rest of the body also present. Does not matter much for the victim, of course. He couldn’t see it from below properly in the chimney darkness, but he knew that there was somehow something missing. The victim’s head. Not missing as such, but rather, disattached to the body. It was in his bag. Santa-sack. Blood had long ago stopped trickling and the trails of it were half-dry on the clothes. However, there was a small pool of it in the fireplace itself. Pretty dark in the half-lit room. Almost black. Such a small pool, but so much blood… Frederick was still standing next to the fireplace, absent-mindedly sipping on this coffee, heavily lost in thought, when Jack Crawford entered the room. “Nothing. Nothing from the cameras, or from the neighbors, or whoever, or whatever could help us… Do you have anything here, Dr Chilton?” Jack was a big man. His presence stirred the room back to life and suddenly Frederick felt incredibly cold. “I know it’s not grand news for a serial killer profile, Mr Crawford, but I think ours has grown to mightily hate the idea of family holidays at some point in his childhood. He might be an orphan. He can probably envy an ordinary family. But…” he raised his hand to stop Jack from an expected retort. “But… I don’t see how any of this was done out of envy. I… I think it’s something different. I think what we see here is an attempt to teach a lesson to: either the family, or the victim.” “Or us?” “Or us. Although I wouldn’t go as far… what did you say his name was again?” The psychiatrist nodded in the direction of a Santa-cadaver. “Denzel Fox.” “Denzel Fox… rings a bell, no? No? No, I guess not… I’ll go talk to the family, Mr Crawford, if you allow me.” ____ Something was bugging him all the way back. Denzel Fox… Denzel Fox… Frederick didn’t bring himself to look at the severed head. Or was it chopped? But the name was so familiar. He was struggling to remember. When thinking about it, his scales of good and bad were subconsciously inclining to “bad”. Wait. He almost hit the brakes. Was it the same Professor Fox who made sure Frederick’s way into psychiatric academia was so steep and he had to hit his head on the scientific magazines' doors so many times until his works were finally approved? Could be? “Well, bastard got what he deserved, if it were him.” He’ll check it later. He thought it was all. But something was still bugging him. On his way. When he bought that bottle of some expensive red wine for the two of them. When he was parking his car in the parking lot reserved specifically for Dr Lecter’s guests. When he was climbing the porch steps even… It was something that Hannibal said to him when they were discussing and planning on their Christmas together. “Hope, you’ll like my present, Frederick.” I think I need some rest…