Thanks to chameleon for the help, we'll have to see where it takes us.
Add the usual "his not mine"
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When Clarice arrived back at her hotel, she dumped her briefcase on the bed and plopped into a chair. Shaking her head at the unlikelihood of the day's events, she kicked off her heels and massaged the sole of her left foot. While desperately searching for one mass murderer, she ran into a different one. Maybe if she started looking for Dr. Lecter, she would stumble on the "Prostitute Predator." Somebody on the staff of the Tattler was an alliterative overachiever, she mused tiredly as she changed feet.
Those thoughts brought her back to her conversation with the doctor. She pondered briefly why she hadn't run straight back to the police station and reported the contact. Probably because they wouldn't believe her, and she didn't have the energy required to convince them. Yep, that was her answer and she was sticking to it.
She stood and carefully hung her suit up on one of the theft proof hangers that were complementary with the room. She moved into the bathroom longing for a long, hot bath, but one look at the grungy tub showed her the wisdom of a shower instead. What she wouldn't give to be home right now, she thought as she stepped under the hot water. This assignment was supposed to be important for her career, but she couldn't muster much of the old fire. Of course, she still wanted to get the bad guy, but ridding the world of injustice had ceased to be her sole responsibility. She was old and getting older, tired beyond words, and really didn't have a whole lot to show for her life that meant anything to her. Sure there was the media coverage, both good and bad, but that didn't matter to her. She had no family and few friends and she was beginning to wonder what the point of it all was. Clinically she knew she was beginning to show symptoms of depression, but she refused to let it get to her. Maybe if she just kept herself busy it would go away. Yep, she should just keep believing that, she thought sarcastically as she reached for a towel.
Not bothering to dry her hair, she pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of boxers and headed for bed. She was going to have to be up early the next day, but she had no enthusiasm for returning to questioning room she had taken over as an office. Only the thought that she might get another phone call put a small smile on her face as she drifted off to sleep.
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In another part of the city, Doctor Lecter was dressed in black silk pajamas, reclining in the opulent surroundings of his own hotel room. He appeared to be staring absently out the window, but his mind was moving at an incredible pace as he tried to quantify the newest of Clarice's cases. There was something wrong with the whole picture that he couldn't identify. He knew the person was a heterosexual, white male in his early forties, and yet there was something distinctly feminine about the way the bodies had been carved up. He'd wandered into the police station and borrowed a copy of the case file three days ago. He wondered if Clarice had noted its absence as he glanced down at the folder spread over his lap. He'd taken the folder on a whim, but was glad he had done so. There was something slightly familiar about the "Prostitute Predator" that he couldn't quite pin down.
He moved into his memory palace, to the room where he kept his old patients, and studiously went through each one. When he came to Robert Fitzsimmons he stopped, and reviewed the memories that went with the name. The man had been sent to him after being arrested for picking up prostitutes on several occasions. Robert certainly fit the profile the doctor had put together from the little evidence that was presented in the file, and yet he didn't think Fitzsimmons was capable of killing. The man was certainly capable of aiding and abetting a killer, but the doctor knew with certainty that the man didn't have the mental fortitude required to take a life. That meant there was more than one person involved. It was an unlikely scenario, but it had been seen before in the Manson case. It would also explain the inconsistencies he saw in his profile of the killer. So who else was involved? That was a question he couldn't answer at the moment. He decided to let his mind work on the problem without his consciousness getting in the way. He folded the file folder and put it on the table beside his chair. He stood and walked panther-like into the adjoining bedroom. After tuning off the light and settling into bed, he lay with his hands behind his head and looked up at the darkened ceiling. He decided he would go shopping tomorrow. Clarice was probably missing the few comforts her home offered, and she needed her mind completely on the case if she was going to solve it. He wasn't worried about his own safety, he knew Clarice hadn't reported their phone call; it would have been all over the evening news if she had. However, something was bothering him in connection with her safety and the case she was working on. It frustrated him that he couldn't find the missing piece of the puzzle, but he knew better than to try to force it. He would just have to trust that his little warrior could take care of herself for the time being. He might 'bump' into her tomorrow morning just to see how she had fared the night. His eyes closed slowly on that pleasant thought.
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The next morning Clarice made her way across the street towards the station, after picking up her sacrifice to the god that was Starbucks. Purse slung over her shoulder and coffee and briefcase in hand there was little she could do to avoid the jostling crowd. So intent was on getting across the street without spilling her coffee that she didn't see the man in the navy blue business suit until she walked smack into him. A mumbled apology as she moved around him and then she was walking down the sidewalk again. She didn't notice until much later that day, that her hotel key had disappeared from her purse.
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Well there we have it. Not to bad for something that was a PWP up until this morning.
More soon I promise – I want to find out how it's going to end too. luna.
