November 4th, 1993
Dearest Clarice,
If I were forced to delegate a season in which to spend the rest of my days, I would choose Fall. There is something so sacred about the simple beauty of the turning leaves, a beauty most people seem to underestimate. Though anyone can appreciate the sight of the foliage of summer blooming into delicious shades of orange and copper, I wonder how many of those skyward glances elicit the truth of the fiery trees? They are dying, Agent Starling, and we pause to take pictures.
Where I am now, there is little to discriminate one season from the next. It is always warm enough to wade far away from the shoreline. I sometimes find myself standing in the shallow water for the better part of an hour, content to simply watch the gnarled white waves as they break past the jutting arms of the coral fields.
Baltimore is especially lovely in the latter months of the year. I recommend that you visit some time, Agent Starling. The college campus is home to a fine assortment of trees that present an exquisite palette most pleasing to the eye.
If you do get around to it, Clarice, I would adore hearing from you.
Goodbye for now-
H.
P.S. -- God slays Himself with every leaf that flies and hell is more than half of Paradise. Edward Arlington Robinson
---
The letter came in a plain brown padded envelope that smelled faintly of stale cigars. Included with the single sheet of parchment was a tiny finger of peach colored coral, rough edges worn smooth by the waves. Clarice Starling felt almost nostalgic as she held the lightweight curl in her hand, touched by a sudden sense of overwhelming exhaustion and sadness. She knew who the letter was from even before she opened it. Starling suspected that she'd developed some kind of sixth sense when it came to Lecter, for she had unearthed a pair of sterile gloves from her bottom drawer as soon as she'd seen that flagrant loopy penning of her name.
Everyone else had long since retired to reluctant spouses and children who were growing up too fast. Though most would have been spooked by the utter, eerie quiet that pounded in the darkness, Clarice was comforted. Silence was a rare commodity in her life.
She squinted her eyes as she perused the letter again, a cursory check for any stray fibers or grains of sand. The coral was slipped into her pocket. She told herself it really wasn't necessary that anyone know about it.
Baltimore in the Fall, she mused. Coral fields. He was definitely eluding to something he wanted her to know. But an explanation would have been just...too simple. She imagined he was taking great pleasure in the thought that she would be digging frantically through files and folders for a secret he held at leisure on some sun warmed beach a million miles from Washington.
She scrawled the words ''coral fields'' on a naked sheet of note paper. A few attempted permutations of the letters yielded none of the Doctor's infamous anagrams, or at least none that made any logical sense.
Perhaps his case file would shed some light upon the situation. Stretching against the stiff plastic chair, Clarice wandered from her tiny, cramped cubicle into the file room. She flicked on the light switch and winced, pupils contracting in the onslaught of harsh florescence.
Lecter's case file was the same as it had been the other four hundred and seventeen times she had looked through it, both on assigned errand and in shamed secret, following through with the morbid fascination that seemed to follow her every where she went.
The grisly crime scene photos did not make her wince anymore. She thumbed past them as easily as you would thumb through the irritating ads in a favorite magazine. Newspaper clippings she'd read a thousand times. There were exactly eighty four, not counting those doubled because they were run in several different papers. Suddenly Clarice frowned and peered closer. At the very back of the file, stuck to the edge of the report describing Lecter's incarceration, was a small, two column, yellowing scrap of paper that looked as though it had been shoved into the folder as an afterthought.
Careful not to tear the fragile newsprint, Clarice extracted the article and held it a few inches away from her face, squinting to read the words that had faded with time. As she read, her mouth went unpleasantly dry.
---
LOCAL STUDENT FOUND DEAD
The body of twenty three year old Cora Fielding was found late Sunday afternoon in her campus apartment. She was discovered by local psychiatrist Dr. Hannibal Lecter, who instructed Fielding in a weekly psychiatry course at the University of Baltimore. Lecter told police that the young woman had missed her last two classes and had failed to respond to friends' and neighbors' phone calls. When he went by to check on her, he found the door unlocked. Dr. Lecter states that Fielding's wrists and arms were slashed, and that she had apparently bled to death. The death has been ruled as a suicide, with no foul play suspected. Services for Ms. Fielding will be held at Somerset Funeral Home at three PM on Wednesday.
---
"What did you do to her, Doctor Lecter?" Clarice murmured as she read the article again. On the back, someone had scribbled the date--11/04/1976. Twenty years ago to the day.
Dr. Lecter-
Twenty years is a long time, isn't it? I often wonder how it is that we manage to retain so much information over the decades. It seems that the human mind should become too cluttered after a while, and that those memories that are too old or too painful would disappear.
Unfortunately, that is not the way it works. I've learned that sometimes memories can be more powerful that reality. Memories can drive us to insanity. And what was it you said, Doctor? Memory is what you have instead of a view. Well, you've got your view now, it seems. So why do you dredge up the past?
As you probably expected, I'm now on my way to Baltimore to find out what you want me to know about the late Cora Fielding. Who was she, Doctor? More than just a pupil, I'm willing to bet.
I am not even sure this letter will reach you, as I imagine you have a network of false addresses and ghost PO boxes to keep us from tracing your whereabouts. If it does, however, please write back.
Enjoy your sunny beach, Doctor Lecter. It appears your freedom agrees with you a great deal more than it does with the FBI.
Best Wishes- Clarice M. Starling.
Clarice photocopied her letter and left a draft on Crawford's desk, along with a quick note explaining what she planned to do in Baltimore. She had a nagging feeling that this would not sit well with the higher-ups in admin, but she had three weeks vacation time coming if Krendler tried to throw a wrench in the gears.
It was a few minutes past two in the morning when Clarice pulled out of the parking lot, the headlights of the Mustang reflecting in the black windows like the eyes of some hunted beast. She turned the radio up too loud as she slid onto the thin ribbon of highway, focusing only on the dimness ahead and ignoring the changing foliage that flanked the road.
---
My Dearest Agent Starling~
It is very kind of you to respond to my letter. Tell me, does Jack Crawford know we are carrying on like this? How terribly jealous he must feel.
I-
Hannibal paused, his pen clamped firmly between strong, solid teeth. A stout Tahitian breeze kicked up the sand and sent it scattering over his paper and the small desk he used as a writing surface. The corner of the parchment fluttered against the wind, beating against his fingers like a butterfly's wing. He stared out over the balcony for several long, silent moments. In the forgotten fraction of one of them, he caught the phantom scent of lavender. His throat constricted involuntarily.
A girl with eyes the color of warm honey
I hope you-
Her hair alive with amber fire
I hope you enjoy B-
The smell of skin and Vivaldi on the record player
I hope you enjoy Baltimore. I am-
The taste of blood in a fledgling kiss
I am-
Subj. was approx. three weeks
I am c-
three weeks three weeks three weeks
Hannibal set his pen down reluctantly, face unreadable in the citrusy afternoon light. He had begun this, after all, he had wanted her to know. Taking a long draught from his half-empty glass of Perignon, he relaxed against the breeze and let the memory draw him in.
Dearest Clarice,
If I were forced to delegate a season in which to spend the rest of my days, I would choose Fall. There is something so sacred about the simple beauty of the turning leaves, a beauty most people seem to underestimate. Though anyone can appreciate the sight of the foliage of summer blooming into delicious shades of orange and copper, I wonder how many of those skyward glances elicit the truth of the fiery trees? They are dying, Agent Starling, and we pause to take pictures.
Where I am now, there is little to discriminate one season from the next. It is always warm enough to wade far away from the shoreline. I sometimes find myself standing in the shallow water for the better part of an hour, content to simply watch the gnarled white waves as they break past the jutting arms of the coral fields.
Baltimore is especially lovely in the latter months of the year. I recommend that you visit some time, Agent Starling. The college campus is home to a fine assortment of trees that present an exquisite palette most pleasing to the eye.
If you do get around to it, Clarice, I would adore hearing from you.
Goodbye for now-
H.
P.S. -- God slays Himself with every leaf that flies and hell is more than half of Paradise. Edward Arlington Robinson
---
The letter came in a plain brown padded envelope that smelled faintly of stale cigars. Included with the single sheet of parchment was a tiny finger of peach colored coral, rough edges worn smooth by the waves. Clarice Starling felt almost nostalgic as she held the lightweight curl in her hand, touched by a sudden sense of overwhelming exhaustion and sadness. She knew who the letter was from even before she opened it. Starling suspected that she'd developed some kind of sixth sense when it came to Lecter, for she had unearthed a pair of sterile gloves from her bottom drawer as soon as she'd seen that flagrant loopy penning of her name.
Everyone else had long since retired to reluctant spouses and children who were growing up too fast. Though most would have been spooked by the utter, eerie quiet that pounded in the darkness, Clarice was comforted. Silence was a rare commodity in her life.
She squinted her eyes as she perused the letter again, a cursory check for any stray fibers or grains of sand. The coral was slipped into her pocket. She told herself it really wasn't necessary that anyone know about it.
Baltimore in the Fall, she mused. Coral fields. He was definitely eluding to something he wanted her to know. But an explanation would have been just...too simple. She imagined he was taking great pleasure in the thought that she would be digging frantically through files and folders for a secret he held at leisure on some sun warmed beach a million miles from Washington.
She scrawled the words ''coral fields'' on a naked sheet of note paper. A few attempted permutations of the letters yielded none of the Doctor's infamous anagrams, or at least none that made any logical sense.
Perhaps his case file would shed some light upon the situation. Stretching against the stiff plastic chair, Clarice wandered from her tiny, cramped cubicle into the file room. She flicked on the light switch and winced, pupils contracting in the onslaught of harsh florescence.
Lecter's case file was the same as it had been the other four hundred and seventeen times she had looked through it, both on assigned errand and in shamed secret, following through with the morbid fascination that seemed to follow her every where she went.
The grisly crime scene photos did not make her wince anymore. She thumbed past them as easily as you would thumb through the irritating ads in a favorite magazine. Newspaper clippings she'd read a thousand times. There were exactly eighty four, not counting those doubled because they were run in several different papers. Suddenly Clarice frowned and peered closer. At the very back of the file, stuck to the edge of the report describing Lecter's incarceration, was a small, two column, yellowing scrap of paper that looked as though it had been shoved into the folder as an afterthought.
Careful not to tear the fragile newsprint, Clarice extracted the article and held it a few inches away from her face, squinting to read the words that had faded with time. As she read, her mouth went unpleasantly dry.
---
LOCAL STUDENT FOUND DEAD
The body of twenty three year old Cora Fielding was found late Sunday afternoon in her campus apartment. She was discovered by local psychiatrist Dr. Hannibal Lecter, who instructed Fielding in a weekly psychiatry course at the University of Baltimore. Lecter told police that the young woman had missed her last two classes and had failed to respond to friends' and neighbors' phone calls. When he went by to check on her, he found the door unlocked. Dr. Lecter states that Fielding's wrists and arms were slashed, and that she had apparently bled to death. The death has been ruled as a suicide, with no foul play suspected. Services for Ms. Fielding will be held at Somerset Funeral Home at three PM on Wednesday.
---
"What did you do to her, Doctor Lecter?" Clarice murmured as she read the article again. On the back, someone had scribbled the date--11/04/1976. Twenty years ago to the day.
Dr. Lecter-
Twenty years is a long time, isn't it? I often wonder how it is that we manage to retain so much information over the decades. It seems that the human mind should become too cluttered after a while, and that those memories that are too old or too painful would disappear.
Unfortunately, that is not the way it works. I've learned that sometimes memories can be more powerful that reality. Memories can drive us to insanity. And what was it you said, Doctor? Memory is what you have instead of a view. Well, you've got your view now, it seems. So why do you dredge up the past?
As you probably expected, I'm now on my way to Baltimore to find out what you want me to know about the late Cora Fielding. Who was she, Doctor? More than just a pupil, I'm willing to bet.
I am not even sure this letter will reach you, as I imagine you have a network of false addresses and ghost PO boxes to keep us from tracing your whereabouts. If it does, however, please write back.
Enjoy your sunny beach, Doctor Lecter. It appears your freedom agrees with you a great deal more than it does with the FBI.
Best Wishes- Clarice M. Starling.
Clarice photocopied her letter and left a draft on Crawford's desk, along with a quick note explaining what she planned to do in Baltimore. She had a nagging feeling that this would not sit well with the higher-ups in admin, but she had three weeks vacation time coming if Krendler tried to throw a wrench in the gears.
It was a few minutes past two in the morning when Clarice pulled out of the parking lot, the headlights of the Mustang reflecting in the black windows like the eyes of some hunted beast. She turned the radio up too loud as she slid onto the thin ribbon of highway, focusing only on the dimness ahead and ignoring the changing foliage that flanked the road.
---
My Dearest Agent Starling~
It is very kind of you to respond to my letter. Tell me, does Jack Crawford know we are carrying on like this? How terribly jealous he must feel.
I-
Hannibal paused, his pen clamped firmly between strong, solid teeth. A stout Tahitian breeze kicked up the sand and sent it scattering over his paper and the small desk he used as a writing surface. The corner of the parchment fluttered against the wind, beating against his fingers like a butterfly's wing. He stared out over the balcony for several long, silent moments. In the forgotten fraction of one of them, he caught the phantom scent of lavender. His throat constricted involuntarily.
A girl with eyes the color of warm honey
I hope you-
Her hair alive with amber fire
I hope you enjoy B-
The smell of skin and Vivaldi on the record player
I hope you enjoy Baltimore. I am-
The taste of blood in a fledgling kiss
I am-
Subj. was approx. three weeks
I am c-
three weeks three weeks three weeks
Hannibal set his pen down reluctantly, face unreadable in the citrusy afternoon light. He had begun this, after all, he had wanted her to know. Taking a long draught from his half-empty glass of Perignon, he relaxed against the breeze and let the memory draw him in.