Clarice flips through the papers contained in the file. Looking for that one thing that will snap it into focus. Order. The guy wants order. He's going after neat people, people who have to be like him. But why? He's trying to secure order for himself. Okay, that's the first principle then. She scribbles notes on the notepad, unreadable chicken scratch. Could he be working with a housekeeping service? Carpet cleaners? The Coit van is called to mind for that. Okay, check those places out first thing in the morning, see if anyone of the victims had their carpets cleaned recently. Only two had weekly housekeeping service, victims number one and four. Maybe the others had them come in on a trial basis, some companies did offer a free cleaning the first time you used them. Starling scribbles furiously, intent on drawing out the riddle. The rain is pelting harder against the windows now, obscuring the darkness from view.

*****

Lightning briefly illuminates the kitchen, showing him stark against the white fridge. He is drawing a knife from its self-sharpening sheath, noting that he'll have to buy one for himself later on. It's a nice feature, saving him from having to dig through the drawers looking for the sharpening stone. No papers laying about for him to test the knife's blade on this time. He leaves the kitchen, footsteps masked by the steady beat of the rain. He edges to the first floor bedroom, counting the steps as he goes. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. There, he lays his hand on the door knob, twisting it slowly. This door sighs on its hinges and he freezes, afraid that the noise will wake her and disrupt the order of things. Nothing, only the sound of heavy breathing from the bed. His hands tracks on the right side of the door, on the bedroom wall, seeking the light switch. It was so much easier with the lamp next to the bed, much less time for his victim to become aware of his presence.

The woman doesn't move as the light comes on, bright in the darkness. He closes the distance to the bed, left hand reaching to pull the covers back to reveal the sleeping form. A flash of lightning outside as the sleeping woman is revealed. No. Her hair is glossy black, skin is the color of pale porcelain. No. This is not the order of things. This cannot be if he is to Become. She shivers at the lack of sheets and awakens, groping for the sheets. He does not move, unsure of how to deal with her. He cannot think, nothing is in its place. She looks at him, green eyes growing wide in terror as they flit from his face to the knife.

"Oh god." she manages, a whimper rising in her throat. She watches him draw his knife back, raising her arm to ward it off. It issues a quiet thump as it cuts into the mattress next to her. He is quick, grabbing the upraised arm and pulling her from the bed.

"Where is she?" he asks, lips curled back as he leans close to her face, she kicks at him and struggles. "Stop that." he wrenches her wrists back, causing her knees to buckle as he holds her. "Where is she?"

A whimper, half out of pain and half out of terror issues from her lips. "Who?" she manages, felling the grip tighten. "Sandy moved out three days ago."

The soft voice rumbles dangerously. "No. She cannot. It is not the order of things."

She shakes her head, "Look. She did, I don't control things. She moved out. Please just let me go, I don't wanna get hurt or anything. Just leave, please. I won't call the police or anything." she pleads, tears beginning to track down her face. She hears a low growl and feels herself being thrown against the dresser. The oil lamp wobbles dangerously then crashes to against her head. He takes the knife from the bed and wraps her hand around it, placing it in her lap. She is semi-conscious, having suffered only a concussion. Her eyes try to focus on him, and she will vividly remember his yellow eyes. He speaks in a voice that is a near whisper.

"You will be a witness." he informs her. "You will herald my Becoming and the coming of the Order."

Her lips work to form a single word, pleasing him as she asks the question he wants. "Who?"

"The Red Dragon."

*****

Jane Morricone shivers as she sits in the living room of her Baltimore home, watching the local police and FBI agents work. She called 911 as soon as she was sure she was alone in the house again. Now, she waits. By noon tomorrow this will be in the Tattler, with her name on the byline. Finally, something other than those damn cancer stories. She hears her name and looks up to see a young FBI agent coming towards her. She recognizes the face as belonging to Clarice Starling. She is proved correct as the woman introduces herself, soft accent rolling in her voice.

"Mrs. Morricone, can I ask you a few questions?"

She smiles, brain clicking into gear so she can compose her own notes later. This would be one hell of a story. The latest serial killer to draw the attention of the FBI, with the most prolific agent on the case. She smiled as best she could as she replied. "Sure, Agent Starling, ask away."

*****

Starling stood before Crawford's desk, eyes red and bleary from the lack of sleep last night. She had arrived at Jane Morricone's house around two am, after having only managed a few hours of sleep. Crawford fixed himself an Alka-Seltzer as he listened to her. He stopped her at one point, looking up from the carbonated liquid in the glass, his own eyes red over the rims of his glasses.

"Did you say Red Dragon, Starling?"

"Yes sir. I think we may have a copy cat of sorts on our hands."

He drank the Alka-Seltzer and shook his head. "He told her that he was the Red Dragon? I don't need this again."

She nodded, drawing a breath to steady herself before she asked the next question. "Sir, do you think there is anyway we could get Will Graham's help on this case? I mean, if it is a copy cat of the original Red Dragon's crimes, Mr. Graham would know, right?"

A dry laugh came as her answer. "Starling, Will won't ever come back to help the FBI. No way. I'm not going to get my ass chewed out for calling him up here."

Okay. On to tactic number two, it was a slim shot, but… "Maybe if I called him, sir? Just asked if he would look over the file, give us his opinion?"

Crawford eyed her, he knew she was stubborn. He could see the same look Will had always gotten when he wanted something and was being refused it. "Okay, Starling, call him. But don't say I didn't warn you." she smiled briefly and nodded.

"Yes sir. Thank you, Mr. Crawford." she turned and walked form his office. He shook his head at her retreating image. First Graham and now Starling. How did he keep choosing them?

*****