Feb. 28, 1992
"You wanted to see me, sir?" Clarice poked her head around the corner of Jack Crawford's basement office.
"Starling." Crawford looked up from his desk. "Take a seat."
She claimed the chair in front of the desk and waited while he studied her. His scrutiny was more obvious than the doctor's, but perhaps he wanted to see if she would squirm. She stared calmly back.
"How've you been, Starling?"
"Fine, sir."
His head tipped slightly to the right. "It's alright if you aren't, Starling. What happened last month rattled seasoned agents. You held it together when it mattered."
She shrugged, the motion pulling a bit at the still-healing tissue in her left arm.
"Really, sir, I'm fine."
She could see the wheels turning behind his eyes as he worked to find another opening.
"You and John Brigham were close; no one would fault you for being distracted or… upset."
"I'm not sure what you mean by 'close,' sir. He was helping me train for the interservice pistol competition. We got along well."
"Of course, Starling. I wasn't implying otherwise."
It was a given that he was, in fact, implying otherwise; she supposed it was better than having him think she was mooning over Hannibal Lecter. I'd never be able to explain that one away.
"Look, I'm going to level with you, Starling. You've seemed a little… off… in the last few weeks."
Oh, really, have I? I'm sure it's nothing important, sir; I'm just realizing that I trust Hannibal Lecter more than half of my co-workers and it's possible that I might, maybe, someday, want… something… more than afternoon chats with a man who's going to be locked up for serial murder for the rest of his life. But no, that's not a reason to be a little "off." Not at all.
"I'm dealing with it, sir. I've been attending the mandatory counseling sessions."
"I know, Starling; I've seen the reports." He held up a placating hand, and Clarice furiously choked down the feeling of betrayal rising in her throat. "Relax. Nothing you've said is in there; they're just Dr. Taylor's assessments of your mental readiness for fieldwork."
Her body was tense in the chair, her left hand fisted against her thigh. She smoothed out her expression and slowly straightened her fingers. Crawford nodded toward her hand.
"It's nice to see there's something under that calm façade, Starling. You can control it, and that's good, that's key in the field, but you've got to let it out sometime. Find a hobby. And no, pistol shooting doesn't count. You need to take downtime when you have the chance. I know it doesn't seem like it matters when you're pushing papers and running down numbers, but it'll matter when you get to BSU. We all need a break sometimes."
He paused, tapping his index finger on the desk. He was coming to a point, she thought, and he wanted to be certain he had her full attention. She leaned forward slightly, encouraging him to continue.
"We have a case out west. Seven months, six murders, five cities, same MO. The team is burned out. I want fresh eyes on it, Starling. Your eyes." He grimaced like he'd tasted something sour. "And Lecter's, if you can get him to cooperate. We're struggling with the profile."
He pointed to a file box on the floor beside the desk.
"Two copies, one soft-paper-only for him, one for you. If he won't go for it, then we're done. You don't owe him anything, Starling; either he helps with the case or the visits stop."
Clarice was very careful to keep her eyes on the box as she nodded. Mr. Crawford had no need to know that the idea of ending her visits fueled a panicked flight of butterflies in her gut. In all the months she'd been visiting, even with the latest gift of lingerie, she had never once considered threatening to stop coming. It would be an empty threat, and the doctor would know it before the words even left her lips.
"I understand, sir. I'm certain he'll cooperate. He won't want to end his little games in a fit of pique."
"You know you can put your foot down whenever you like, Starling. He might be a useful resource, but you shouldn't have to put up with… well. That last gift he sent was—"
"—was just another attempt to rattle us by trying a new angle. It's to be expected, sir. I've already handled it."
She was still, calm, as he took her measure. Only her earnest desire to succeed – her burning ambition to gain a spot in Behavioral Science – showed in her eyes. Everything else was locked down tight, resistant to all intruders save one. And wouldn't he be surprised when she showed up three weeks early?
Crawford finally nodded. "Alright, Starling. Get outta here and get to work."
"Thank you, sir." She grabbed the box and departed, suddenly eager for tomorrow to arrive.
Feb. 29, 1992
Hannibal Lecter lay on his bunk, hands clasped on his stomach, contemplating the mysteries of Clarice Starling. Such thoughts were, of late, his favorite pastime. Each of their meetings revealed more of her inner workings, her magnificently ordered mind with its charming flaws.
He was reviewing their most recent chat, pausing to study her expressions, to wring every last drop of understanding from her reactions, when he heard the familiar sound of her footsteps. It was a ridiculous notion, of course; a mere two weeks had passed since their last meeting and another three lay ahead before she would return, if she held to her pattern. He considered, for a moment, that he might be experiencing an auditory hallucination brought on by his desire for her presence.
The woman herself laid that notion to rest, however, with her arrival.
"C'mon, lazybones, out of bed." He shifted his head to catch her expression; her eyes were bright, her grin eager and growing – enhanced, no doubt, by her joy in catching him less than prepared for her. She hefted a box in her arms. "We've got a case."
Ah. A case, of course. That would explain the early visitation and the joy written across her features. He would excuse the casual greeting, though he did not believe that the moniker "lazybones" truly applied. He swung his legs down from the bed and stood.
"Good afternoon to you as well, Clarice. Am I to understand this is an actual case and not some grade-school challenge Uncle Jack has devised?"
"It's a bona fide case, Doctor. Six women murdered in the last seven months. I have a copy of the case file for you."
"Will we be working this one together, Clarice?"
"If you'll have me, Doctor. I've read through my copy, but I thought we could go over it together this afternoon if you don't have plans."
Interestingly, he didn't detect any mockery in her tone. True plans were an impossibility, of course, but her courtesy was such that she would allow him the option to excuse himself for whatever reason. Perhaps she considered his mental explorations plans of a sort. But as he had no plans for the afternoon other than reviewing his interactions with her, and he now had the genuine article in front of him, he was content to look over this new case and soak up her excitement.
"By all means, Clarice, send it through."
He picked up the file from the food carrier and laid it on his small table. Her eagerness seemed colored by relief, and he couldn't resist indulging.
"So I'm to give you something for nothing, Clarice?"
"Hardly nothing, Doctor." Did she realize how often her facial expressions now mimicked his own? Her raised eyebrow and sardonic smile seemed a perfect match for his. "How many free questions have I answered for you in the last nine months?"
He nodded to acknowledge the point before beginning to flip through the pages in front of him. Soft paper only, of course.
"Tell me, Clarice, what if I had declined to participate in this little investigation?"
She paused a moment before beginning to lay pages and photos out on the floor in front of her. "Mr. Crawford would have used it as a pretext to end our chats, Doctor."
"And you would simply stop visiting on Uncle Jack's say-so, Clarice? That seems unlike you."
"I wouldn't really have a choice in the matter, Doctor."
He pressed a finger to his lip, feigning deep thought. "You could visit as a private citizen."
She responded with a withering stare, clearly not buying his act. How delightful.
"That would make things a little awkward at work, Doctor."
"Ah, yes, I see how that might make Jack feel a bit threatened."
Her eyes flickered as she digested his meaning, but she ignored the comment. An idea she had considered herself? Hmm. Perhaps his comments regarding Jackie-boy's interest in her had taken root more deeply than he previously suspected.
"Director Chilton wouldn't allow it anyway, Doctor. If I didn't have the weight of Behavioral Science behind me, he wouldn't let me in the door." She paused, affecting an impression of surprised thought herself. Mirroring him. He was quite pleased with such progress. "Why, I do think he doesn't like me!"
He smiled, leaning forward, as though confiding a secret. "It's quite all right, Clarice. I don't think he likes me, either."
She rewarded him with a laugh. He pressed on with the game.
"Well, then, we could take ol' Freddie to court for denying me my visitors. Those are the sorts of things one pays lawyers to handle, Clarice."
"A lawsuit, Doctor? Because that would be so much less awkward at work, when my co-workers ask me why my face is on the front of the Tattler next to the headline 'Cannibal's Jailhouse Bride Desperate to Get In' or some other BS."
Interesting. Her responses required no true pauses to think, which meant she had already considered each of the avenues he suggested. Perhaps she had given Jack an earful on the subject.
Aloud, he said only, "I had no idea you wished to be married, Clarice. Would a summer wedding suit?"
"I'm really more of an autumn girl, Doctor." She hadn't even looked up from the pages she was spreading on the floor in front of his cell. "If we get to work now, I promise I'll let you interrogate me about dresses and flowers and musical selections later."
"Of course, Clarice. Menace and murder first, wedding plans later." He turned his face to the pages in front of him and began to read, ignoring the eyes he could feel watching him before she, too, became absorbed in the work.
March 4, 1992
"One day of studying the files with Lecter and you're convinced the fourth murder was a copycat?" Jack Crawford shook his head as he flipped through the report she'd submitted Monday morning. "You know we've had seasoned agents on this case for months, Starling. What makes you so sure?"
Clarice refrained from mentioning that it had been more like three hours, not a full day, and that she and the doctor had been in agreement about the fourth murder after the first thirty minutes.
"It's laid out in the report, sir. You said you wanted fresh eyes; that's what I've given you."
"The knot-tying technique."
"It's subtle, yes, but it's different. The person who killed the fourth woman doesn't have the same skill with ropes. The timing doesn't fit the pattern. It's a second kill in the same city, which the perpetrator has not done otherwise."
She stopped, aware that she was rushing forward in her eagerness to prove her theory. Take a breath, Clarice. You know your explanation is the right one. Dr. Lecter agrees with you, even if Mr. Crawford doesn't.
Her conscience tripped at the thought. She wanted the Behavioral Science slot; surely it was disloyal to trust Hannibal Lecter's opinion over Jack Crawford's. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair.
Crawford sighed.
"I'll pass it on to the team, Starling, but only as a possible theory. You're still working on a profile?"
"Yes, sir, the doctor and I are meeting again Saturday to put together our thoughts on the killer."
He half-smiled. "You're a go-getter, Starling, I'll give you that. Once you sink your teeth into a project, you don't let it go."
Clarice responded with an empty half-smile of her own. Had the doctor made the same comment, it might have been with approval and a wicked playfulness about teeth. From Jack Crawford, it sounded like disbelief with a tinge of disapproval. "No, sir."