The Silence of the Lambs

  “The Attorney General’s coming. That’s what I heard at turnout. How long you been in the FBI?”

  There was a rubber cabbage in the vegetable drawer. Starling rolled it over and checked the jewelry compartment inside. Empty.

  “How long you been in the FBI?”

  Starling looked at the young policeman.

  “Officer, tell you what. I’ll probably need to ask you a couple of things after I’ve finished looking around here. Maybe you could help me out then.”

  “Sure. If I can—”

  “Good, okay. Let’s wait and talk then. I have to think about this right now.”

  “No problem, there.”

  The bedroom was bright, with a sunny, drowsy quality Starling liked. It was done with better fabrics and better furnishings than most young women could afford. There was a Coromandel screen, two pieces of cloisonné on the shelves, and a good secretary in burled walnut. Twin beds. Starling lifted the edge of the coverlets. Rollers were locked on the left bed, but not on the right-hand one. Catherine must push them together when it suits her. May have a lover the boyfriend doesn’t know about. Or maybe they stay over here sometimes. There’s no remote beeper on her answering machine. She may need to be here when her mom calls.

  The answering machine was like her own, the basic Phone-Mate. She opened the top panel. Both incoming and outgoing tapes were gone. In their place was a note, TAPES TBI PROPERTY #6.

  The room was reasonably neat but it had the ruffled appearance left by searchers with big hands, men who try to put things back exactly, but miss just a little bit. Starling would have known the place had been searched even without the traces of fingerprint power on all the smooth surfaces.

  Starling didn’t believe that any part of the crime had happened in the bedroom. Crawford probably was right, Catherine had been grabbed in the parking lot. But Starling wanted to know her, and this is where she lived. Lives, Starling corrected herself. She lives here.

  In the cabinet of the nightstand were a telephone book, Kleenex, a box of grooming items and, behind the box, a Polaroid SX-70 camera with a cable release and a short tripod folded beside it. Ummmm. Intent as a lizard, Starling looked at the camera. She blinked as a lizard blinks and didn’t touch it.

  The closet interested Starling most. Catherine Baker Martin, laundry mark C-B-M, had a lot of clothes and some of them were very good. Starling recognized many of the labels, including Garfinkel’s and Britches in Washington. Presents from Mommy, Starling said to herself. Catherine had fine, classic clothes in two sizes, made to fit her at about 145 and 165 pounds, Starling guessed, and there were a few pairs of crisis fat pants and pullovers from the Statuesque Shop. In a hanging rack were twenty-three pairs of shoes. Seven pairs were Ferragamos in 10C, and there were some Reeboks and run-over loafers. A light backpack and a tennis racket were on the top shelf.

  The belongings of a privileged kid, a student and practice teacher who lived better than most.

  Lots of letters in the secretary. Loopy backhand notes from former classmates in the East. Stamps, mailing labels. Gift wrapping paper in the bottom drawer, a sheaf in various colors and patterns. Starling’s fingers walked through it. She was thinking about questioning the clerks at the local drive-in market when her fingers found a sheet in the stack of gift wrap that was too thick and stiff. Her fingers went past it, walked back to it. She was trained to register anomalies and she had it half pulled out when she looked at it. The sheet was blue, of a material similar to a lightweight blotter, and the pattern printed on it was a crude imitation of the cartoon dog Pluto. The little rows of dogs all looked like Pluto, they were the proper yellow, but they weren’t exactly right in their proportions.

  “Catherine, Catherine,” Starling said. She took some tweezers from her bag and used them to slide the sheet of colored paper into a plastic envelope. She placed it on the bed for the time being.

  The jewelry box on the dresser was a stamped-leather affair, the kind you see in every girl’s dormitory room. The two drawers in front and the tiered lid contained costume jewelry, no valuable pieces. Starling wondered if the best things had been in the rubber cabbage in the refrigerator, and if so, who took them.

  She hooked her finger under the side of the lid and released the secret drawer in the back of the jewelry box. The secret drawer was empty. She wondered whom these drawers were a secret from—certainly not burglars. She was reaching behind the jewelry box, pushing the drawer back in, when her fingers touched the envelope taped to the underside of the secret drawer.

  Starling pulled on a pair of cotton gloves and turned the jewelry box around. She took out the empty drawer and inverted it. A brown envelope was taped to the bottom of the drawer with masking tape. The flap was just tucked in, not sealed. She held the paper close to her nose. The envelope had not been fumed for fingerprints. Starling used the tweezers to open it and extract the contents. There were five Polaroid pictures in the envelope and she took them out one by one. The pictures were of a man and a woman coupling. No heads or faces appeared. Two of the pictures were taken by the woman, two by the man, and one appeared to have been shot from the tripod set up on the nightstand.

  It was hard to judge scale in a photograph, but with that spectacular 145 pounds on a long frame, the woman had to be Catherine Martin. The man wore what appeared to be a carved ivory ring on his penis. The resolution of the photograph was not sharp enough to reveal the details of it. The man had had his appendix out. Starling bagged the photographs, each in a sandwich bag, and put them in her own brown envelope. She returned the drawer to the jewelry box.

  “I have the good stuff in my pocketbook,” said a voice behind her. “I don’t think anything was taken.”

  Starling looked in the mirror. Senator Ruth Martin stood in the bedroom door. She looked drained.

  Starling turned around. “Hello, Senator Martin. Would you like to lie down? I’m almost finished.”

  Even exhausted, Senator Martin had a lot of presence. Under her careful finish, Starling saw a scrapper.

  “Who are you, please? I thought the police were through in here.”

  “I’m Clarice Starling, FBI. Did you talk to Dr. Lecter, Senator?”

  “He gave me a name.” Senator Martin lit a cigarette and looked Starling up and down. “We’ll see what it’s worth. And what did you find in the jewelry box, Officer Starling? What’s it worth?”

  “Some documentation we can check out in just a few minutes,” was the best Starling could do.

  “In my daughter’s jewelry box? Let’s see it.”

  Starling heard voices in the next room and hoped for an interruption. “Is Mr. Copley with you, the Memphis special agent in—”

  “No, he’s not, and that’s not an answer. No offense, Officer, but I’ll see what you got out of my daughter’s jewelry box.” She turned her head and called over her shoulder. “Paul. Paul, would you come in here? Officer Starling, you may know Mr. Krendler from the Department of Justice. Paul, this is the girl Jack Crawford sent in to Lecter.”

  Krendler’s bald spot was tanned and he looked fit at forty.

  “Mr. Krendler, I know who you are. Hello,” Starling said. DeeJay Criminal Division congressional liaison, troubleshooter, at least an Assistant Deputy Attorney General, Jesus God, save my bod.

  “Officer Starling found something in my daughter’s jewelry box and she put it in her brown envelope. I think we’d better see what it is, don’t you?”

  “Officer,” Krendler said.

  “May I speak to you, Mr. Krendler?”

  “Of course you can. Later.” He held out his hand.

  Starling’s face was hot. She knew Senator Martin was not herself, but she would never forgive Krendler for the doubt in his face. Never.

  “You got it,” Starling said. She handed him the envelope.

  Krendler looked in at the first picture and had closed the flap again when Senator Martin took the envelope out of his hands.

  It was painful to watch
her examine the pictures. When she finished, she went to the window and stood with her face turned up to the overcast sky, her eyes closed. She looked old in the daylight and her hand trembled when she tried to smoke.

  “Senator, I—” Krendler began.

  “The police searched this room,” Senator Martin said. “I’m sure they found those pictures and had sense enough to put them back and keep their mouths shut.”

  “No they did not,” Starling said. The woman was wounded but, hell. “Mrs. Martin, we need to know who this man is, you can see that. If it’s the boyfriend, fine. I can find that out in five minutes. Nobody else needs to see the pictures and Catherine never needs to know.”

  “I’ll tend to it.” Senator Martin put the envelope in her purse, and Krendler let her do it.

  “Senator, did you take the jewelry out of the rubber cabbage in the kitchen?” Starling asked.

  Senator Martin’s aide, Brian Gossage, stuck his head in the door. “Excuse me, Senator, they’ve got the terminal set up. We can watch them search the William Rubin name at the FBI.”

  “Go ahead, Senator Martin,” Krendler said. “I’ll be out in a second.”

  Ruth Martin left the room without answering Starling’s question.

  Starling had a chance to look Krendler over as he was closing the bedroom door. His suit was a triumph of single-needle tailoring and he was not armed. The shine was buffed off the bottom half-inch of his heels from walking on much deep carpet, and the edges of the heels were sharp:

  He stood for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, his head down.

  “That was a good search,” he said when he turned around.

  Starling couldn’t be had that cheap. She looked back at him.

  “They turn out good rummagers at Quantico,” Krendler said.

  “They don’t turn out thieves.”

  “I know that,” he said.

  “Hard to tell.”

  “Drop it.”

  “We’ll follow up on the pictures and the rubber cabbage, right?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the ‘William Rubin’ name, Mr. Krendler?”

  “Lecter says that’s Buffalo Bill’s name. Here’s our transmission to ID section and NCIC. Look at this.” He gave her a transcript of the Lecter interview with Senator Martin, blurry copy from a dot-matrix printer.

  “Any thoughts?” he said when she finished reading.

  “There’s nothing here he’ll ever have to eat,” Starling said. “He says it’s a white male named Billy Rubin who had elephant ivory anthrax. You couldn’t catch him in a lie here, no matter what happens. At the worst he’d just be mistaken. I hope this is true. But he could be having fun with her. Mr. Krendler, he’s perfectly capable of that. Have you ever … met him?”

  Krendler shook his head and snorted air from his nose.

  “Dr. Lecter killed nine people we know of. He’s not walking, no matter—he could raise the dead and they wouldn’t let him out. So all that’s left for him is fun. That’s why we were playing him—”

  “I know how you were playing him. I heard Chilton’s tape. I’m not saying it was wrong—I’m saying it’s over. Behavioral Science can follow up what you got—the transsexual angle—for what it’s worth. And you’ll be back in school at Quantico tomorrow.”

  Oh boy. “I found something else.”

  The sheet of colored paper had lain on the bed unnoticed. She gave it to him.

  “What is it?”

  “Looks like a sheet of Plutos.” She made him ask the rest.

  He beckoned for the information with his hand.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s blotter acid. LSD. From maybe the middle seventies or before. It’s a curiosity now. It’s worth finding out where she got it. We should test it to be sure.”

  “You can take it back to Washington and give it to the lab. You’ll be going in a few minutes.”

  “If you don’t want to wait, we can do it now with a field kit. If the police’ve got a standard Narcotics Identification Kit, it’s test J, take two seconds, we can—”

  “Back to Washington, back to school,” he said, opening the door.

  “Mr. Crawford instructed me—”

  “Your instructions are what I’m telling you. You’re not under Jack Crawford’s direction now. You’re back under the same supervision as any other trainee forthwith, and your business is at Quantico, do you understand me? There’s a plane at two-ten. Be on it.”

  “Mr. Krendler, Dr. Lecter talked to me after he refused to talk to the Baltimore police. He might do that again. Mr. Crawford thought—”

  Krendler closed the door again, harder than he had to. “Officer Starling, I don’t have to explain myself to you, but listen to me. Behavioral Science’s brief is advisory, always has been. It’s going back to that. Jack Crawford should be on compassionate leave anyway. I’m surprised he’s been able to perform as well as he has. He took a foolish chance with this, keeping it from Senator Martin, and he got his butt sawed off. With his record, this close to retirement, even she can’t hurt him that much. So I wouldn’t worry about his pension, if I were you.”

  Starling lost it a little. “You’ve got somebody else who’s caught three serial murderers? You know anybody else who’s caught one? You shouldn’t let her run this, Mr. Krendler.”

  “You must be a bright kid, or Crawford wouldn’t bother with you, so I’ll tell you one time: do something about that mouth or it’ll put you in the typing pool. Don’t you understand—the only reason you were ever sent to Lecter in the first place was to get some news for your Director to use on Capitol Hill. Harmless stuff on major crimes, the ‘inside scoop’ on Dr. Lecter, he hands that stuff out like pocket candy while he’s trying to get the budget through. Congressmen eat it up, they dine out on it. You’re out of line, Officer Starling, and you’re out of this case. I know you got supplementary ID. Let’s have it.”

  “I need the ID to fly with the gun. The gun belongs at Quantico.”

  “Gun. Jesus. Turn in the ID as soon as you get back.”

  Senator Martin, Gossage, a technician, and several policemen were gathered around a video display terminal with a modem connected to the telephone. The National Crime Information Center’s hotline kept a running account of progress as Dr. Lecter’s information was processed in Washington. Here was news from the National Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta: Elephant ivory anthrax is contracted by breathing dust from grinding African ivory, usually for decorative handles. In the United States it is a disease of knifemakers.

  At the word “knifemakers,” Senator Martin closed her eyes. They were hot and dry. She squeezed the Kleenex in her hand.

  The young trooper who had let Starling into the apartment was bringing the Senator a cup of coffee. He still had on his hat.

  Starling was damned if she’d slink out. She stopped before the woman and said, “Good luck, Senator. I hope Catherine’s all right.”

  Senator Martin nodded without looking at her. Krendler urged Starling out.

  “I didn’t know she wasn’t s’posed to be in here,” the young trooper said as she left the room.

  Krendler stepped outside with her. “I have nothing but respect for Jack Crawford,” he said. “Please tell him how sorry we all are about … Bella’s problem, all that. Now let’s get back to school and get busy, all right?”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Krendler.”

  Then she was alone on the parking lot, with the unsteady feeling that she understood nothing at all in this world.

  She watched a pigeon walk around beneath the motor homes and boats. It picked up a peanut hull and put it back down. The damp wind ruffled its feathers.

  Starling wished she could talk to Crawford. Waste and stupidity get you the worst, that’s what he said. Use this time and it’ll temper you. Now’s the hardest test—not letting rage and frustration keep you from thinking. It’s the core of whether you can command or not.

  She didn’t give a damn about commanding
. She found she didn’t give a damn, or a shit for that matter, about being Special Agent Starling. Not if you play this way.

  She thought about the poor, fat, sad, dead girl she saw on the table in the funeral home at Potter, West Virginia. Painted her nails with glitter just like these God damned redneck ski boats.

  What was her name? Kimberly.

  Damn if these assholes are gonna see me cry.

  Jesus, everybody was named Kimberly, four in her class. Three guys named Sean. Kimberly with her soap opera name tried to fix herself, punched all those holes in her ears trying to look pretty, trying to decorate herself. And Buffalo Bill looked at her sad flat tits and stuck the muzzle of a gun between them and blew a starfish in her chest.

  Kimberly, her sad, fat sister who waxed her legs. No wonder—judging from her face and her arms and legs, her skin was her best feature. Kimberly, are you angry somewhere? No senators looking out for her. No jets to carry crazy men around. Crazy was a word she wasn’t supposed to use. Lot of stuff she wasn’t supposed to do. Crazy men.

  Starling looked at her watch. She had an hour and a half before the plane, and there was one small thing she could do. She wanted to look in Dr. Lecter’s face when he said “Billy Rubin.” If she could stand to meet those strange maroon eyes for long enough, if she looked deeply where the dark sucks in the sparks, she might see something useful. She thought she might see glee.

  Thank God I’ve still got the ID.

  She laid twelve feet of rubber pulling out of the parking lot.

  CHAPTER 35

  Clarice Starling driving in a hurry through the perilous Memphis traffic, two tears of anger dried stiff on her cheeks. She felt oddly floaty and free now. An unnatural clarity in her vision warned her that she was inclined to fight, so she was careful of herself.

  She had passed the old courthouse earlier on her way from the airport, and she found it again without trouble.

  The Tennessee authorities were taking no chances with Hannibal Lecter. They were determined to hold him securely without exposing him to the dangers of the city jail.

  Their answer was the former courthouse and jail, a massive Gothic-style structure built of granite back when labor was free. It was a city office building now, somewhat over-restored in this prosperous, history-conscious town.