We are coming upon a memory palace. Well, to say this is a palace would be a gross exaggeration. This rundown memory shack has little in the way of furnishings or rooms. Its bookshelves are lined with spelling primers, A-B-C books, a child's dictionary; its curator needs them daily, and the pages are well-worn.

In a dark corner of the back room of the shack, there is a drawing tacked to the wall. The sketch is of a bare-breasted woman, and a yellow Post-it note covers her most vulnerable features. The curator spends considerable time in this room, and takes pleasure in sneaking furtive glances under the Post-it note, giggling to himself like a schoolboy as he does.

The room is all but barren—two items on the wall, and a ratty thrift store recliner for the curator to sit upon as he ponders in his simple way. Apart from his secret peaks at the rendering of Starling's breasts, his one purpose for this room was to stare—at considerable length, given his slowed process speed—at the FBI wanted poster hung adjacent to the sketch, and to plan for its subject's demise.