From behind towering stacks of papers a mousey, brown head bobs and weaves ever so slightly. The soft rustle of and the rhythmic tapping of a left foot can faintly be heard over the whir of the air conditioning. The faint scent of iron and salami is apparent for those who pay attention.
The brown head belongs to a one Margaret Price, Meg to her friends, a twenty-something woman working for the F. B. I. Her wide eyes dart hungrily from word to word, sucking up its' information, as if filling her starving mind with delicious, informative facts. Her feast is interrupted, though, by a knock from the heavy metal door.
"Come in," she murmurs, just loud enough for the person on the other side to hear. All the while her eyes remain fixed on the page blackened with the delectable words. In steps a short man, balding already, though he appears to be only in his early forties. He stands there in the frame of the door, clad in a gray suit, almost too formal for the morning. Obviously he is trying too hard. He stands there for a moment, waiting for her to acknowledge him, and when she doesn't, he results to clearing his throat. Reluctantly, she trails her gaze across the room and up, slowly, until she glimpses the stern face of her boss, otherwise known as Charles Gordon.
"Oh," she chokes and respectfully stands. "G'morning, sir."
"Mornin', detective Price." He eyes the clutter. "Have you been here all night?"
She rocked back into her chair, grabbing a pen on the way down and shoving it in between her teeth, and nodded. "I'm close, sir. I can taste it."
Gordon's ruddy cheeks spread into a disturbingly chubby grin. "Watch your words, Price." He giggles idiotically at the humorless pun.
"Sir," she says earnestly, not even bothering to feign amusement. "I'm on him. I've got him. I'll catch him, sir. I will."
Gordon steps into the dim room and sits on the edge of her desk and gingerly fingers the papers cloaking the plastic wood.
Suddenly serious, he looks her in the eye."I know, Price. I expect you to. I wouldn't have assigned you to this case if I thought you'd just drop in of your ass. Just try not to get too involved, if you know what I mean." He winks at the poor girl and places his meaty hand over her slender one. "I just worry about you is all." Uneasily she pulls away and cradles her hand as if it were injured.
"Um, sir," she falters, adjusting her spectacles. "From what I've deducted; he's in Europe. France, maybe. Or possible Germany. There was a drop of oil on a letter he send to Starling recently. The oil is from a certain kind of flower that only grows along the banks of the Rhine river." She pauses a moment, then says, "I'm leaving Sunday afternoon,"
Gordon stands up, surprised. "You're leaving? To find him? On your own?" Price nods after each question. "Are you nuts? Do you have some kind of terminal illness?"
"Sir," she interrupts his tirade, auditioning for the role of the voice of reason, "I know the causes of your objection. And, believe me, I understand your concern. But just as I understand why you don't want me to, you must understand why I need to."
The room is silent for a while as Gordon stares at his scuffed loafers. Finally relenting, he sighs, "I get why you want to go, I just don't think of it as a necessity." He glances at her. She radiates confidence. Frowning, he crosses his arms over his chest.
She stands up and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Her mouth tweaks into an excited smile. "Don't worry about me, sir. I'm not like Starling. I'm not so easily corrupted."
"Then at least have someone go with you, Price. You're getting into some serious shit. Won't you at least have someone go with you?" He is pleading now, genuinely worried. She won't relent and his face grows somber. "I don't care how strong you think you are. You are not strong enough to face this creep. It's dangerous enough even with a team but without one is just plain old suicide. This guy may not seem like much, but he's a lot stronger than we could ever know." He pauses, waiting for what he hopes to be an agreeable attitude.
To his surprise, she smiles. "You're right, sir. It's crazy. But I know what I'm doing. I really do." She stares confidently at her superior, daring him to say otherwise before she continues. "I may have only been officially on this case for sixteen months, but he has been doing what he is doing for as long as I have been alive. Even though I cannot match the whole of the F. B. I. and all of its' work, I have devoted myself to this case ever since I was eight years old. If anyone would ever have the pleasure of catching him, it would be me by a long shot."
Super-confident about her exhilarating spiel, she builds herself up, ready for whatever question he is about to ask her.
"Have you actually spoken to Starling?"
Not actually understanding where this is going, she shakes her head and says, "No, but, sir, I don't really see the reasoning behind that."
"Go speak with her," he says, ignoring her reply, "she can better prepare you for this better than anyone." He fishes in his coat pocket and pulls out a card with an address and two telephone numbers. She gingerly fingers the card and stands up, ready to meet the infamous woman.