Scribbles on a notepad as rain patters softly on the windowpanes. A glass of wine sits at her elbow as Clarice puzzles over the murders. Mr. Crawford instructed her to find anything, anything, to link the women together. Everything so far was way too vague to be of much help. Who knows how many women in the area had blonde hair, weighed five foot three and weighed less than one hundred twenty five pounds. whoever he was, he couldn't kill them all. She sighed and pulled her legs up into the chair, resting the pad on them while the pen was tapped against her teeth. She had sharpened her teeth on the Buffalo Bill case, and it seemed that everyone thought she was a miracle worker now. Yeah right. She wished she had the answers, but she didn't. Closing her eyes she began to drift in her memories. As always, he was there, waiting.

She stands in front of a steel cage, looking in on an imperially thin man sitting inside. He is leaning forward against a chairback, looking at her. He is staring into her with the utmost intensity. She struggles to keep her composure as he does so.

"First principles, Clarice." his voice rasps from behind the bars. She blinks, trying to figure out what to tell him. "What does he do?"

"He kills." the face twists and she knows, once again, that it is not the correct answer.

"No, Clarice. That is incidental. What does he do, this man you seek?"

She thinks, visualizing the crime scenes. The precise order everything was left in, nothing out of place. As if the murders committed themselves. "He's neat."

"Go on." He rocks the chair forward, balancing the weight on the front legs and his toes.

"He makes sure that the scene is precisely the way he found it."

"Ummmm. Warmer. What does he seek by making sure everything is in its place?"

She knows this. Her eyes shoot open and she tells the answer to the empty room. "Order. He wants order." She felt slightly silly for having debated this with a non-existent psychiatrist in her head, but it got her the first answer in the case. The guy's trying to control something. What, though, is the next question.

*****

The sun is setting over Florence as she walks with the man through the streets. She had just been treated to what had to be the most wonderful sight in the world. The breeze had played in her hair as she leaned over a balcony at the Belvedere and looked out across Florence. The Duomo was more magnificent than anything she had ever seen, along with the crenelated Palazzo Vecchio. She had been unable to control the need to sketch it, to keep it forever and ever in her mind's eye. She had also taken the 35 mm Nikon from her shoulder bag and snapped pictures, so she could work the details into the sketch later. Her glee was evident as she turned to face the man, who was watching her from the doorway, leaning slightly against the doorjamb, hands clasped behind his back.

"Impressive, isn't it?" he asked, coming to join her, watching as pigeons took to the sky, floating against the sunset.

"Wow. I mean, yes sir, it is."

"You don't have to keep calling me sir." he gentle reprimanded her, studying her high cheekbones in the fading light.

She blushed. "Well, I don't know what else to call you, seeing as I have yet to learn your name."

"My colleagues know me as Dr. Fell." he smiled, showing small white teeth that contrasted with the red lips.

She straightened to her full height, with perfect posture that had been drilled into her by her grandmother. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Fell. My name is Petra Morricone."

"Petra. An unusual name."

It was her turn to smile. "My mother's private joke. She thought her name was too plain, so her daughter had to have something that would stand out."

"And your mother's name is…?"

"Jane."

*****