Starling rose from her seat and ran two doors down to Jack Crawford's door.
She pounded on it until he opened the door. He stared at her curiously.
"Look, if you want dinner, you could just ask," he said, trying to be humorous.
"I know who it is! It's Lecter! It's Lecter!" Starling panted.
Crawford opened the door and raised an eyebrow quizzically at Starling. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter?"
"Yes. It's him."
Crawford sighed and opened the door. Crawford's room was a suite, and she saw the other agents – Witt and Meyer -- seated on the sofa. Starling came in.
"Listen," she said. "I think our perp is Hannibal Lecter."
Crawford snorted. He sat down on a chair. "I can think of three reasons why it wouldn't be him."
"What are they?"
"First off, she's alive. Secondly, she's not horribly injured. Third, she isn't crazy."
"Neither am I, and I dealt with Lecter," she said.
"When he was in a maximum security cell. Now look, Starling. There are several possibilities here. She may have gone abroad and gotten the transplant there. There are countries where they sell organs."
"On a waitress's salary? She doesn't even have a car."
"Or," Crawford continued, ignoring Starling's interruption, "maybe someone, somewhere, has set up a rogue surgical team and is selling black market organs. We did discover a whole lot of blood tests shipped by this Lawson character to an out of state medical lab for typing. It's hard to believe, but it is possible. Could be she agreed to guinea-pig for them, to see what hospitals would do when they turned up. Could even be that she didn't know, and Lawson picked her out himself as a guinea pig."
"Or Lecter could have done it," Starling implored. "He's very intelligent. He could have done this."
Crawford shook his head. "Dr. Lecter skipped the country after his escape. What would he come back for? And what in God's name makes you think that the doctor is suddenly filled with the milk of human kindness and decided to help out this girl?"
"I don't know why he came back," Starling admitted, "but most probably money. He hid it good, good enough that the IRS hasn't been able to find it. Maybe he had to personally be there to get his hands on it. As far as why he would do it…same as with me. She amused him."
"So he takes on this girl, locates and kills a donor, gets her, transplants the kidneys, and takes care of her 24-7 for an entire week because it amuses him?" Crawford shook his head.
The fax machine hummed to life suddenly. One of the other agents went over to it and got the paper spewing out. He looked up.
"Out of the country looks like a bust. No passport ever issued, no airline reports having her as a passenger. There was one Lander, E, going to New Delhi last week, but that's an Edwin Lander, no relation, forty-seven-year- old man."
"It was Lecter," Starling rasped again. "Think about it. Gourmet coffee house. That's what drew him there. His tastes. And yes, he could have done this for her if it amused him. The manager said she was always real polite with the customers. Smart girl, too. Graduated college with a four- point. If she caught his eye, and he decided to try to help her out... it could've been an experiment for him."
"Lecter's not a surgeon," the fourth agent – Meyer – observed.
"He could learn," Starling answered. "That would also let him thumb his nose at the medical establishment. He thought very poorly of them."
"Starling," Crawford said patiently, "I don't know what got you on this Lecter kick, but let's be honest here. It's not Lecter's M.O., not by far. It makes no sense for Lecter to have come back into this country. If he did, the smart thing for him to do would be lie low, get his money, and get out the minute he could. And her description of the perp doesn't even come close to matching Lecter. Now we're waiting on a list of doctors in all fifty states named Lawson. But I can't clear this as a Lecter sighting. Now look at other alternatives."
"She said the last dinner he made her was sautés reins. Know what those are? Sauteed kidneys."
Crawford raised an eyebrow and fell silent for a few minutes. "That's interesting, Starling, but are you sure they were hers? Could've just been a symbolic thing."
"We could pump her stomach."
"It was a couple of days ago. Whatever she ate is long gone. We've got no proof this was Lecter, Starling. Look at other alternatives."
It was Starling's turn to fall silent. She needed proof, she knew that.
"Can I question Erin Lander in the morning?"
Crawford raised his hands. "Sure. If that Gestapo doctor will let you in. But unless you come back with a signed affidavit saying it was Lecter, I want you to come up with other alternatives."
She thought about her theory. It was completely true that the smart thing for Dr. Lecter to do would be to lie low. But Dr. Lecter did not always do the smart thing. Sometimes, his whimsy got the best of him. Starling was determined to see that it would this time.
The next morning, Starling slipped into Erin Lander's hospital room again. She seemed quieter.
"Hi, Erin," Starling said, smiling. "I just wanted to know if I could ask you a question or two more."
Erin grimaced and turned her face away. "Haven't I answered enough questions?" she asked plaintively. "All I want is to go home and get on with my life."
The plea hit Starling in an unexpectedly sensitive place. She opened her hands. "Okay. Okay. Just one question I need answered, and then I'll leave you alone."
"Fine," Erin replied, a bit irritably.
"I just need to know if this is the man who did this to you," Starling said, and handed over the mugshot of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
Erin took the picture and looked at it for a few minutes. Starling saw signs of recognition in her face. The tip of her tongue stuck out from between her teeth. The hand holding the photo trembled a bit. Her jaw moved once, twice, thrice. She handed the mugshot back and shook her head.
"No," she said.
"You hesitated," Starling observed.
"I told you what he looked like," Erin said.
"Do you know who that is?"
"No. Isn't keeping track of criminals your job?"
"That's Hannibal Lecter. And I think maybe he's the one who did this to you."
"It's not him."
Starling struggled for words. She'd never been terribly good at the kid- glove treatment and wasn't fond of having her theory shot to hell. Especially after she had seen recognition in Erin's face. Why in God's name would anyone protect Lecter?
"Erin, look. Whatever he did to you, it's not your fault. You don't need to protect him. He's very good at getting in your head."
"That's not him," Erin repeated.
Starling tried a few more times, but Erin was not cooperating. But there was something strange going on here. Erin recognized the photograph. Starling could see that in her face. But she steadfastly refused to admit it. Eventually, she grew petulant and irritable, telling Starling that she had said it wasn't him five times already and why wasn't that enough. Starling had to hold herself back from yelling. She had always loathed girlish behavior in herself and other women.
Well, better to admit defeat gracefully.
"Erin, I know you've been through a lot, and you're probably really scared and confused right now and I get the idea you're holding something back from me," Starling said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out one of her business cards. "I'm going to leave you my card. If you ever have anything you want to tell me, give me a call."
"Fine," Erin said crabbily.
"You have a good day now, and I hope you feel better," Starling said, and left the room before her rage showed.
Outside, Starling waited until she was out of earshot of Erin Lander – and her physician – and wheeled suddenly. Her fist smashed into the plain gray wall of the hallway. It left a satisfying hole in the drywall. Take that, Dr. Rhodes, she thought.
"Damn!" she hissed. A few nurses and orderlies stared at her. She left the hospital and drove back to the hotel with a heavy feeling in her stomach. When she arrived, Crawford was on the phone. She sat, steaming, waiting for him to get off the phone. She felt like a young girl sent to the principal's office.
Finally, Crawford hung up. He turned to her.
"Get anything?"
"No," she admitted, still fuming.
Crawford nodded. After a moment, he said, "I'm sorry, Starling. But we can't go seeing Lecter behind every corner."
"I know," she said.
"Thanks for getting the statement, though," he said. "I do appreciate that."
"My pleasure, sir," she said dully.
"I'll get you on a plane back to D.C. Let you finish up on the other things you have to do."
"All right," she said.
"Keep your chin up, Starling. If I need you, I'll let you know. And maybe we can get you in here permanently, when the time is right."
"Thank you, sir," she said.
She returned to Washington later that day. On the plane, she was in a foul mood. At her desk, she stared bitterly at the phone, hoping beyond hope that it would ring. A few days later, the final profile of a sexually obsessed older doctor who had hoped to win Erin Lander's affections with a kidney transplant came out. Starling threw her copy in the trash and went out for lunch.
Far away, Erin Lander was discharged from the hospital with the singular diagnosis of 'kidney transplant of unknown origin'. She was prescribed appropriate immune suppressants and referred to a transplant team for post- surgical care. Her professors at the medical school expressed interest and concern, and one came to pick her up from the hospital.
At the apartment, she sat down at her roommate's computer and opened a web browser. In the search field, she typed 'Hannibal Lecter'. After surfing around and finding a site describing Dr. Lecter, she sat staring at the digitized image of the same mugshot Starling had showed her in the hospital.
"Thank you, Dr. Lecter," she murmured.
"Look, if you want dinner, you could just ask," he said, trying to be humorous.
"I know who it is! It's Lecter! It's Lecter!" Starling panted.
Crawford opened the door and raised an eyebrow quizzically at Starling. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter?"
"Yes. It's him."
Crawford sighed and opened the door. Crawford's room was a suite, and she saw the other agents – Witt and Meyer -- seated on the sofa. Starling came in.
"Listen," she said. "I think our perp is Hannibal Lecter."
Crawford snorted. He sat down on a chair. "I can think of three reasons why it wouldn't be him."
"What are they?"
"First off, she's alive. Secondly, she's not horribly injured. Third, she isn't crazy."
"Neither am I, and I dealt with Lecter," she said.
"When he was in a maximum security cell. Now look, Starling. There are several possibilities here. She may have gone abroad and gotten the transplant there. There are countries where they sell organs."
"On a waitress's salary? She doesn't even have a car."
"Or," Crawford continued, ignoring Starling's interruption, "maybe someone, somewhere, has set up a rogue surgical team and is selling black market organs. We did discover a whole lot of blood tests shipped by this Lawson character to an out of state medical lab for typing. It's hard to believe, but it is possible. Could be she agreed to guinea-pig for them, to see what hospitals would do when they turned up. Could even be that she didn't know, and Lawson picked her out himself as a guinea pig."
"Or Lecter could have done it," Starling implored. "He's very intelligent. He could have done this."
Crawford shook his head. "Dr. Lecter skipped the country after his escape. What would he come back for? And what in God's name makes you think that the doctor is suddenly filled with the milk of human kindness and decided to help out this girl?"
"I don't know why he came back," Starling admitted, "but most probably money. He hid it good, good enough that the IRS hasn't been able to find it. Maybe he had to personally be there to get his hands on it. As far as why he would do it…same as with me. She amused him."
"So he takes on this girl, locates and kills a donor, gets her, transplants the kidneys, and takes care of her 24-7 for an entire week because it amuses him?" Crawford shook his head.
The fax machine hummed to life suddenly. One of the other agents went over to it and got the paper spewing out. He looked up.
"Out of the country looks like a bust. No passport ever issued, no airline reports having her as a passenger. There was one Lander, E, going to New Delhi last week, but that's an Edwin Lander, no relation, forty-seven-year- old man."
"It was Lecter," Starling rasped again. "Think about it. Gourmet coffee house. That's what drew him there. His tastes. And yes, he could have done this for her if it amused him. The manager said she was always real polite with the customers. Smart girl, too. Graduated college with a four- point. If she caught his eye, and he decided to try to help her out... it could've been an experiment for him."
"Lecter's not a surgeon," the fourth agent – Meyer – observed.
"He could learn," Starling answered. "That would also let him thumb his nose at the medical establishment. He thought very poorly of them."
"Starling," Crawford said patiently, "I don't know what got you on this Lecter kick, but let's be honest here. It's not Lecter's M.O., not by far. It makes no sense for Lecter to have come back into this country. If he did, the smart thing for him to do would be lie low, get his money, and get out the minute he could. And her description of the perp doesn't even come close to matching Lecter. Now we're waiting on a list of doctors in all fifty states named Lawson. But I can't clear this as a Lecter sighting. Now look at other alternatives."
"She said the last dinner he made her was sautés reins. Know what those are? Sauteed kidneys."
Crawford raised an eyebrow and fell silent for a few minutes. "That's interesting, Starling, but are you sure they were hers? Could've just been a symbolic thing."
"We could pump her stomach."
"It was a couple of days ago. Whatever she ate is long gone. We've got no proof this was Lecter, Starling. Look at other alternatives."
It was Starling's turn to fall silent. She needed proof, she knew that.
"Can I question Erin Lander in the morning?"
Crawford raised his hands. "Sure. If that Gestapo doctor will let you in. But unless you come back with a signed affidavit saying it was Lecter, I want you to come up with other alternatives."
She thought about her theory. It was completely true that the smart thing for Dr. Lecter to do would be to lie low. But Dr. Lecter did not always do the smart thing. Sometimes, his whimsy got the best of him. Starling was determined to see that it would this time.
The next morning, Starling slipped into Erin Lander's hospital room again. She seemed quieter.
"Hi, Erin," Starling said, smiling. "I just wanted to know if I could ask you a question or two more."
Erin grimaced and turned her face away. "Haven't I answered enough questions?" she asked plaintively. "All I want is to go home and get on with my life."
The plea hit Starling in an unexpectedly sensitive place. She opened her hands. "Okay. Okay. Just one question I need answered, and then I'll leave you alone."
"Fine," Erin replied, a bit irritably.
"I just need to know if this is the man who did this to you," Starling said, and handed over the mugshot of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
Erin took the picture and looked at it for a few minutes. Starling saw signs of recognition in her face. The tip of her tongue stuck out from between her teeth. The hand holding the photo trembled a bit. Her jaw moved once, twice, thrice. She handed the mugshot back and shook her head.
"No," she said.
"You hesitated," Starling observed.
"I told you what he looked like," Erin said.
"Do you know who that is?"
"No. Isn't keeping track of criminals your job?"
"That's Hannibal Lecter. And I think maybe he's the one who did this to you."
"It's not him."
Starling struggled for words. She'd never been terribly good at the kid- glove treatment and wasn't fond of having her theory shot to hell. Especially after she had seen recognition in Erin's face. Why in God's name would anyone protect Lecter?
"Erin, look. Whatever he did to you, it's not your fault. You don't need to protect him. He's very good at getting in your head."
"That's not him," Erin repeated.
Starling tried a few more times, but Erin was not cooperating. But there was something strange going on here. Erin recognized the photograph. Starling could see that in her face. But she steadfastly refused to admit it. Eventually, she grew petulant and irritable, telling Starling that she had said it wasn't him five times already and why wasn't that enough. Starling had to hold herself back from yelling. She had always loathed girlish behavior in herself and other women.
Well, better to admit defeat gracefully.
"Erin, I know you've been through a lot, and you're probably really scared and confused right now and I get the idea you're holding something back from me," Starling said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out one of her business cards. "I'm going to leave you my card. If you ever have anything you want to tell me, give me a call."
"Fine," Erin said crabbily.
"You have a good day now, and I hope you feel better," Starling said, and left the room before her rage showed.
Outside, Starling waited until she was out of earshot of Erin Lander – and her physician – and wheeled suddenly. Her fist smashed into the plain gray wall of the hallway. It left a satisfying hole in the drywall. Take that, Dr. Rhodes, she thought.
"Damn!" she hissed. A few nurses and orderlies stared at her. She left the hospital and drove back to the hotel with a heavy feeling in her stomach. When she arrived, Crawford was on the phone. She sat, steaming, waiting for him to get off the phone. She felt like a young girl sent to the principal's office.
Finally, Crawford hung up. He turned to her.
"Get anything?"
"No," she admitted, still fuming.
Crawford nodded. After a moment, he said, "I'm sorry, Starling. But we can't go seeing Lecter behind every corner."
"I know," she said.
"Thanks for getting the statement, though," he said. "I do appreciate that."
"My pleasure, sir," she said dully.
"I'll get you on a plane back to D.C. Let you finish up on the other things you have to do."
"All right," she said.
"Keep your chin up, Starling. If I need you, I'll let you know. And maybe we can get you in here permanently, when the time is right."
"Thank you, sir," she said.
She returned to Washington later that day. On the plane, she was in a foul mood. At her desk, she stared bitterly at the phone, hoping beyond hope that it would ring. A few days later, the final profile of a sexually obsessed older doctor who had hoped to win Erin Lander's affections with a kidney transplant came out. Starling threw her copy in the trash and went out for lunch.
Far away, Erin Lander was discharged from the hospital with the singular diagnosis of 'kidney transplant of unknown origin'. She was prescribed appropriate immune suppressants and referred to a transplant team for post- surgical care. Her professors at the medical school expressed interest and concern, and one came to pick her up from the hospital.
At the apartment, she sat down at her roommate's computer and opened a web browser. In the search field, she typed 'Hannibal Lecter'. After surfing around and finding a site describing Dr. Lecter, she sat staring at the digitized image of the same mugshot Starling had showed her in the hospital.
"Thank you, Dr. Lecter," she murmured.
