Disclaimer: All of the characters found within this story are the property of Thomas Harris. Some of the dialogue and various descriptions have been taken from the novels Hannibal and The Silence of the Lambs. In order to make this story possible, I have messed with the timeline, ages, and character of certain individuals, and there will be inconsistencies in dates, facts and events (Hey, it's an alternate universe!). So sorry, and remember-if you want to flame me, all you have to do is e-mail! :)
**
Dr. Ruth Martin, fifty-eight, administrator of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane walks with Hannibal Lecter down along the corridor, stealing surreptitious glances at him whenever she thought he was not looking. He, of course, was always aware as to what the older woman was doing, and tried not to pay heed to it. Although nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to tell her off, he could not, in the interest of politeness and as a result of the excellent breeding he had as a child.
Clarice Starling's case is one of the most unusual in the annals of criminal history. Female serial killers are almost unheard of, even in this day and age. Those that do, often have an accomplice to help them in their crimes, usually male. Starling not only operated alone, but also plotted out every single detail of the murders herself. As he walked down the hall with Martin, he mentally replayed everything he had learned about the woman he was about to see.
In more ways than one, their educational background was very much the same. Starling had been educated in some of the finest schools in the country, and both she and Lecter had gone to Johns Hopkins. Both had graduated summa cum laude, both had trained at the Maryland Misericordia, and both had topped the medical bar exam. In personal backgrounds however, he remembered that Starling, too, was an orphan at the age of eight, two years older than him when he lost his own parents. That was where the similarities ended.
Unlike Lecter whose affluent relatives in the United States took on the job of raising and educating him, Starling had to work hard for her own support and education. Born in Greenbrier County, West Virginia, she came from purely working-class roots. From the class of people that others condescendingly refer to as blue-collar Appalachians. Like Lecter, she also had a promising career in medicine and Psychiatry but threw it all away when she had gone off the deep end and killed seventeen people over a six-month period. Some of them, by decapitation, and still others by fire. The reason for which nobody had been able to figure out, just as they never knew what prompted Lecter to join the FBI in the first place.
"Before we get to her cell, there are some rules I would like to go over with you first, Agent. Number one, do not touch the glass, do not go near the glass, or even pass her anything other than soft paper. Items are to be passed through the sliding food carrier, and do not accept anything she might pass to you through the food carrier."
Martin was a few paces ahead of him, and he took this time to take a good look around, one glance enough to permanently imprint his surroundings into the memory palace. When they reached Starling's cell, she made a small flourish with her hand, as a magician would when presenting an elaborate illusion.
"Well, Agent Lecter, here we are. May I present to you, Dr. Clarice Starling…"
Starling was an undeniably beautiful woman, with long red hair, almost titian, really, and pale porcelain skin. She was reclining on the lone cot in her cell, perusing the Italian edition of Vogue. At thirty years old, Clarice Starling always looked her age, and always made that age look good, even in standard asylum gear.
"Thank you, Dr. Martin, but I think I'll take it from here," he said.
Martin seemed uncertain. "Actually, I was hoping I could be of some help?"
"No thank you, madam." With that, he turned his back to her, somewhat rudely which was so unlike his nature and approached the Plexiglass.
"Dr. Starling." she looked up from her reading.
Lecter thought he heard a distant humming in his ears, but it was only his blood pulsing through the veins.
" My name is Hannibal Lecter. May I speak with you?"
Dr. Starling closes her eyes as if pondering this for a moment, her left hand drifting to the floor, the magazine lightly scraping against the grey floor. Taking her sweet time, she stood up and walked up to Lecter, looking straight at him, unblinking.
"Good morning." Her voice is mellifluous, with perhaps a slight metallic rasp beneath it from disuse.
He could see that she was slender, her soft curves proportionate and well formed. Beneath the loose drab attire, he saw a lean and wiry strength in her, much like his own.
Clarice Starling's eyes are blue and instead of reflecting light in tiny pinpoints, they seem to absorb it. In the dim light of the cell, behind her eyes seem to be endless night.
"I know who you are, Agent."
"You do?"
"Why of course…" Starling moved closer to him, and Lecter could feel the hairs on both his arms rising, sticking to the sleeves of his shirt. "We both went to Hopkins together, although I never walked amongst your class of high-society friends. You were also two years ahead of me. How old are you now? It's been ages since I last saw you driving around the campus in that splendid little Jag of yours."
"I'm thirty-two, Dr."
"Ah…and I'm only thirty. Tell me, what made you decide to be one of the…F…B…I…? Indulge me, Agent Lecter, or is it doctor?"
"This is official business, so it's to be Agent."
"I see."
"Doctor, we have a problem with Psychological profiling, and I was hoping you could help us…"
"By 'US' I presume you mean Ardelia Mapp and all the apes at Behavioural Sciences. How did you ever end up with that bunch of primates?"
"I'm on loan from another department, doctor."
"Which is?"
"Forensics."
She smiles. "My kind of game…"
"Would you like to see my credentials?"
"No need. Just pass that little folder you have there under your arm to me." Lecter does as she says, using the sliding food carrier. She flips though it, her expression one of disgust and pure scorn.
"Oh, Agent Lecter. Do you really believe you can dissect me with that blunt little tool? It's going to take more than that pile of rubbish to get the remotest bit of interest out of me. Now, on to you."
"Me." He says it matter-of-factly, not betraying his bemusement.
"Yes you. Tell me about yourself, Agent Lecter."
"Not unless you answer that questionnaire, doctor."
"Really? Do I have to?" she pouts as if she is a child, obviously mocking him. "What if I said no?"
"Then I'll leave."
"Good. You'll do that, won't you?"
"Yes." He turns around and starts walking.
"Agent Lecter? Before you go, tell me something." He returns to her cell.
"About what, doctor?"
"About Buffalo Bill." Hannibal Lecter finally saw why Mapp had sent him to Starling, yet even so, he betrayed no knowledge of it, facial expression remaining blank.
"What do you want to know, doctor?"
"Why the name Buffalo Bill? There has to be some good explanation, no?"
"It started as a cheap joke in Kansas city homicide."
"Expound, please."
"When they found the first bodies, one of the deputies remarked 'This one likes to skin his humps.'"
"You're right."
"About what?"
"It is a cheap joke. Tell me more about the victims."
"Perhaps next time, doctor."
"Agent Lecter, there will BE no next time. We both know that."
"I promise that I'll bring the case file on my next visit."
"Yes, you'll do that, won't you? And Agent Lecter, a little bit of advice regarding those psychiatric profiles of Mapp's…a census taker once tried to test me. I…think I'll leave the rest to your imagination." Her pink tongue darts out to touch the middle of her upper lip.
**
Lecter left the dark hospital basement feeling as if a fly was buzzing around the space inside of his head. The cool air felt good to him, after the suffocating smells of the dungeon. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was casting its last rays over the tired concrete jungle. He walked over to an unmarked SUV, where an older man lay dozing at the wheel, jacket off and tie loosened. Lecter walked over to the driver's side and tapped the other man's shoulder, causing him to let out a short yell.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Lecter. You scared the bajeesus out of me!"
"Serves you right, Jack for sleeping on the job."
"Yeah, whatever. So, whaddup?"
"Well, You were right about her."
"What?"
"You told me some things about Starling on our way here, remember Jackie-boy? Or has your alcohol soaked brain forgotten everything?"
"Oh yeah…I guess I remember some of it." Unlike the younger, more dapper Lecter, Jack Crawford was in his mid-forties; grey haired and exhausted. Decades of disillusionment had snuffed out the fire in his eyes. He now was a living zombie, going through the normal numbing routines of existence. His last partner had been killed in a drug bust gone wrong, and now he was stuck with Lecter and could see the same thing happening to him as well.
"Glad to see that a few of your brain cells managed to survive the deluge of whiskey and alka-seltzer you've been pouring down your throat for the past few years."
"So, what did you mean by me being right about starling? She's a first class loony-toony, ain't she?"
"Actually, she seemed…fine."
"Fine in the head, or damned fine-looking?"
"Both."
"Fucking hell, don't let Mapp hear you say that."
"I won't. Move over, Jack. I'll be driving now."
"You gonna be seeing your girl soon?"
"Maybe. She's at the Philharmonic."
"I'd love to see her sometime."
"If you're really good, maybe I'll even let you hold her hand. How's Bella?"
The smile on Crawford's face instantly disappeared at the mention of his wife. "She's fine, Lecter. Juuuust fine." He leaned his head back into the passenger seat headrest as Lecter started the engine.
**
You know the drill, ladies and gentlemen. There's a nice little box at the bottom where you can write your reviews, suggestion, comments, flames (preferably not), and anything else that comes to mind.
Ta,
Tailgunner.
**
Dr. Ruth Martin, fifty-eight, administrator of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane walks with Hannibal Lecter down along the corridor, stealing surreptitious glances at him whenever she thought he was not looking. He, of course, was always aware as to what the older woman was doing, and tried not to pay heed to it. Although nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to tell her off, he could not, in the interest of politeness and as a result of the excellent breeding he had as a child.
Clarice Starling's case is one of the most unusual in the annals of criminal history. Female serial killers are almost unheard of, even in this day and age. Those that do, often have an accomplice to help them in their crimes, usually male. Starling not only operated alone, but also plotted out every single detail of the murders herself. As he walked down the hall with Martin, he mentally replayed everything he had learned about the woman he was about to see.
In more ways than one, their educational background was very much the same. Starling had been educated in some of the finest schools in the country, and both she and Lecter had gone to Johns Hopkins. Both had graduated summa cum laude, both had trained at the Maryland Misericordia, and both had topped the medical bar exam. In personal backgrounds however, he remembered that Starling, too, was an orphan at the age of eight, two years older than him when he lost his own parents. That was where the similarities ended.
Unlike Lecter whose affluent relatives in the United States took on the job of raising and educating him, Starling had to work hard for her own support and education. Born in Greenbrier County, West Virginia, she came from purely working-class roots. From the class of people that others condescendingly refer to as blue-collar Appalachians. Like Lecter, she also had a promising career in medicine and Psychiatry but threw it all away when she had gone off the deep end and killed seventeen people over a six-month period. Some of them, by decapitation, and still others by fire. The reason for which nobody had been able to figure out, just as they never knew what prompted Lecter to join the FBI in the first place.
"Before we get to her cell, there are some rules I would like to go over with you first, Agent. Number one, do not touch the glass, do not go near the glass, or even pass her anything other than soft paper. Items are to be passed through the sliding food carrier, and do not accept anything she might pass to you through the food carrier."
Martin was a few paces ahead of him, and he took this time to take a good look around, one glance enough to permanently imprint his surroundings into the memory palace. When they reached Starling's cell, she made a small flourish with her hand, as a magician would when presenting an elaborate illusion.
"Well, Agent Lecter, here we are. May I present to you, Dr. Clarice Starling…"
Starling was an undeniably beautiful woman, with long red hair, almost titian, really, and pale porcelain skin. She was reclining on the lone cot in her cell, perusing the Italian edition of Vogue. At thirty years old, Clarice Starling always looked her age, and always made that age look good, even in standard asylum gear.
"Thank you, Dr. Martin, but I think I'll take it from here," he said.
Martin seemed uncertain. "Actually, I was hoping I could be of some help?"
"No thank you, madam." With that, he turned his back to her, somewhat rudely which was so unlike his nature and approached the Plexiglass.
"Dr. Starling." she looked up from her reading.
Lecter thought he heard a distant humming in his ears, but it was only his blood pulsing through the veins.
" My name is Hannibal Lecter. May I speak with you?"
Dr. Starling closes her eyes as if pondering this for a moment, her left hand drifting to the floor, the magazine lightly scraping against the grey floor. Taking her sweet time, she stood up and walked up to Lecter, looking straight at him, unblinking.
"Good morning." Her voice is mellifluous, with perhaps a slight metallic rasp beneath it from disuse.
He could see that she was slender, her soft curves proportionate and well formed. Beneath the loose drab attire, he saw a lean and wiry strength in her, much like his own.
Clarice Starling's eyes are blue and instead of reflecting light in tiny pinpoints, they seem to absorb it. In the dim light of the cell, behind her eyes seem to be endless night.
"I know who you are, Agent."
"You do?"
"Why of course…" Starling moved closer to him, and Lecter could feel the hairs on both his arms rising, sticking to the sleeves of his shirt. "We both went to Hopkins together, although I never walked amongst your class of high-society friends. You were also two years ahead of me. How old are you now? It's been ages since I last saw you driving around the campus in that splendid little Jag of yours."
"I'm thirty-two, Dr."
"Ah…and I'm only thirty. Tell me, what made you decide to be one of the…F…B…I…? Indulge me, Agent Lecter, or is it doctor?"
"This is official business, so it's to be Agent."
"I see."
"Doctor, we have a problem with Psychological profiling, and I was hoping you could help us…"
"By 'US' I presume you mean Ardelia Mapp and all the apes at Behavioural Sciences. How did you ever end up with that bunch of primates?"
"I'm on loan from another department, doctor."
"Which is?"
"Forensics."
She smiles. "My kind of game…"
"Would you like to see my credentials?"
"No need. Just pass that little folder you have there under your arm to me." Lecter does as she says, using the sliding food carrier. She flips though it, her expression one of disgust and pure scorn.
"Oh, Agent Lecter. Do you really believe you can dissect me with that blunt little tool? It's going to take more than that pile of rubbish to get the remotest bit of interest out of me. Now, on to you."
"Me." He says it matter-of-factly, not betraying his bemusement.
"Yes you. Tell me about yourself, Agent Lecter."
"Not unless you answer that questionnaire, doctor."
"Really? Do I have to?" she pouts as if she is a child, obviously mocking him. "What if I said no?"
"Then I'll leave."
"Good. You'll do that, won't you?"
"Yes." He turns around and starts walking.
"Agent Lecter? Before you go, tell me something." He returns to her cell.
"About what, doctor?"
"About Buffalo Bill." Hannibal Lecter finally saw why Mapp had sent him to Starling, yet even so, he betrayed no knowledge of it, facial expression remaining blank.
"What do you want to know, doctor?"
"Why the name Buffalo Bill? There has to be some good explanation, no?"
"It started as a cheap joke in Kansas city homicide."
"Expound, please."
"When they found the first bodies, one of the deputies remarked 'This one likes to skin his humps.'"
"You're right."
"About what?"
"It is a cheap joke. Tell me more about the victims."
"Perhaps next time, doctor."
"Agent Lecter, there will BE no next time. We both know that."
"I promise that I'll bring the case file on my next visit."
"Yes, you'll do that, won't you? And Agent Lecter, a little bit of advice regarding those psychiatric profiles of Mapp's…a census taker once tried to test me. I…think I'll leave the rest to your imagination." Her pink tongue darts out to touch the middle of her upper lip.
**
Lecter left the dark hospital basement feeling as if a fly was buzzing around the space inside of his head. The cool air felt good to him, after the suffocating smells of the dungeon. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was casting its last rays over the tired concrete jungle. He walked over to an unmarked SUV, where an older man lay dozing at the wheel, jacket off and tie loosened. Lecter walked over to the driver's side and tapped the other man's shoulder, causing him to let out a short yell.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Lecter. You scared the bajeesus out of me!"
"Serves you right, Jack for sleeping on the job."
"Yeah, whatever. So, whaddup?"
"Well, You were right about her."
"What?"
"You told me some things about Starling on our way here, remember Jackie-boy? Or has your alcohol soaked brain forgotten everything?"
"Oh yeah…I guess I remember some of it." Unlike the younger, more dapper Lecter, Jack Crawford was in his mid-forties; grey haired and exhausted. Decades of disillusionment had snuffed out the fire in his eyes. He now was a living zombie, going through the normal numbing routines of existence. His last partner had been killed in a drug bust gone wrong, and now he was stuck with Lecter and could see the same thing happening to him as well.
"Glad to see that a few of your brain cells managed to survive the deluge of whiskey and alka-seltzer you've been pouring down your throat for the past few years."
"So, what did you mean by me being right about starling? She's a first class loony-toony, ain't she?"
"Actually, she seemed…fine."
"Fine in the head, or damned fine-looking?"
"Both."
"Fucking hell, don't let Mapp hear you say that."
"I won't. Move over, Jack. I'll be driving now."
"You gonna be seeing your girl soon?"
"Maybe. She's at the Philharmonic."
"I'd love to see her sometime."
"If you're really good, maybe I'll even let you hold her hand. How's Bella?"
The smile on Crawford's face instantly disappeared at the mention of his wife. "She's fine, Lecter. Juuuust fine." He leaned his head back into the passenger seat headrest as Lecter started the engine.
**
You know the drill, ladies and gentlemen. There's a nice little box at the bottom where you can write your reviews, suggestion, comments, flames (preferably not), and anything else that comes to mind.
Ta,
Tailgunner.