Author's note: Just for all you Clarice-a-holics, here's Chapter 6 – All Clarice, All the time. Not much goo in this chapter, but you know, the human pancreas can only take so much sugary goo before shutting down. Now the pancreas and thymus are collectively known to gourmets as the sweetbreads. And I'm sure you'd much rather have them in your body rather than served to the Board of the Baltimore Philharmonic with green oysters and Chateau d'Yquem..
Anyhoo, there will be plenty of goo in upcoming chapters. For now, here's Clarice.
Clarice Starling sat at the table, feeling rather like a defendant in the dock. The other people in the room were all men. Gray men, she thought. For they were. Gray hair, gray suits, and a gray look about them. They would not disclose anything they did not have to. They sat in judgment, reducing a person's life and career to the contents of a single manila folder.
Some of these men Clarice could have respect for: they had done the job before being elevated to their current lofty position. Others were simply DOJ stooges, men who had never even aimed a gun at another human being, let alone had to fire it and live with themselves after. She sat in front of them, unrepentant and unbowed. For today, the gray men would have to take back what had been done to her.
Or take back as much as they could.
"All right," one of them said. "We can get started."
Clint Pearsall sat next to Clarice in the manner of a defense attorney. He stood up and cleared his throat.
"This is a reinstatement hearing for Special Agent Clarice M. Starling," he said. "A week ago, Agent Starling was accused of placing an ad in the Italian papers to advise Dr. Hannibal Lecter that he was being watched. We have since discovered evidence that this article was placed by a third party."
One of the men coughed. "Who placed it, then?"
Pearsall handed over a piece of paper. "This receipt was found in Mason Verger's office. His sister permitted a routine search after his death."
Another man harrumphed and held out his hand for it. Clarice watched him coldly, noticing that he seemed to look the same as the men on either side of him, even down to the mid-priced gray pinstripe of his suit. Was there a cloning farm somewhere where they churned out men like these?
"Why would Verger place an ad framing you, Agent Starling?" the man asked her.
Starling rose and gave the clone a direct look. "Mr. Verger was seeking revenge against Dr. Lecter," she explained. "He believed that he could break me, put me in distress so that Dr. Lecter would seek me out."
"Mr. Verger is a civilian," the gray man observed. "How could he do this?"
"He had allies in the Department of Justice," Clarice answered in a steady voice. She was curious to see: these men couldn't not have known about Krendler. They had to. The question was, would they risk having it exposed?
"I see," the man said, dropping the subject like a distasteful piece of garbage.
"What can you tell us about the death of Deputy Assistant General Paul Krendler?"
Clarice paused. She knew where this was going: if she would agree that Krendler was a great old guy, they would probably reinstate her. Although office politics was something she despised with a passion, she wanted her damn badge and gun back. So she would play along. But she wouldn't praise Krendler, she decided. Just tell them the truth.
"After capturing Dr. Lecter at Muskrat Farm," she said carefully, "I was struck by a tranquilizer dart fired by one of the men in Mason Verger's employ. Dr. Lecter brought me out and captured Deputy Krendler. He removed the top of Mr. Krendler's skull and cooked his brain."
"Were you there?"
"Yes, sir, I was. I was unable to assist Mr. Krendler, however. Dr. Lecter administered drugs to me. I do have the results from the hospital indicating that, sir." She held up a file from her own briefcase. Pearsall took it and handed it out to the men.
The gray men did not seem to know what to make of this. Clarice expressed no regret over Krendler, but she hadn't killed him. And the very idea of cooking a man's brain and then feeding it to him did not exactly fit into their world terribly well. These were the same men who would grill you for killing someone pointing a MAC-10 at you.
A few other gray men expressed shock and horror at what Clarice had gone through. One even inquired if she was seeking out counseling. Clarice cleared her throat.
"No, sir, I am not."
"Well, Agent Starling," the man said, adjusting his glasses, "perhaps you should." Clarice glanced down at her notes. This was one of the Section Chiefs, a man who had actually been in the field once.
"Agent Starling," he said in a voice not completely without sympathy, "we routinely expect agents who have had to kill in the line of duty to see counselors. That doesn't even come close to having a front-row seat to someone cutting – well, to this." He tapped the paper in front of him. Paper, paper, paper, Clarice thought. Everything gets reduced to paper in the end. As if any sheet of paper could contain or explain Dr. Lecter.
"I realize that, sir," she said. "With all due respect, gentlemen, I'm here because I want to do my job. I know what happened to Mr. Krendler was horrible. But I didn't do it to him, and I didn't place that ad. I appreciate your concern for me, sir, I really do. But I'm here, I'm alive, and I want to do my job, which is catching Dr. Lecter." She sighed.
"I think what your real question to me is this: do I feel guilt or horror about Mr. Krendler's death? And the answer is no, sir. Not really. That may seem horrible itself to you. I don't think he deserved to die like that, and I would have helped him if it were in my power to do so. Regret for Mr. Krendler is commendable," she said, and immediately wished for Listerine to scrub her mouth out with. Or perhaps a power washer.
"But other things are commendable too. Duty, for one. I believe that I can be of substantial assistance in apprehending Dr. Lecter, and I think fulfilling that obligation would be the best memoriam I could possibly give him. And secondly, sir, I'm happy to be alive myself. Let's not forget, the man who held me captive is a very dangerous, very violent man. No one else has ever survived being in Dr. Lecter's custody in one piece."
In any mystery or problem, there is that one flash of insight where it all comes together. That flash, when the mind puts together the pieces it has and comes up with a whole, is one of the most satisfying experiences in the human condition. It matters little whether the question at hand is a jigsaw puzzle or a serial killer's pattern: the satisfaction of discovery is the same. It is part of our animal instincts, an intellectual version of the savage joy that the world's first hunter must have felt when his sling stone brought down his prey and he approached its body exultantly.
Clarice Starling had gone into this hearing with just a shred of bad faith in her heart. This was born of her anger and fury over this whole thing. She had planned to say she was sorry about Krendler even if she wasn't. She would plead helplessness, even though she knew it was not true. But she had not intended to misinform the gray men of this august committee about Dr. Lecter's history.
But she had.
Clarice stood with her mouth open, an expression of shock on her face. Memories of a cross young woman in a hospital bed surged behind her blank eyes. Then a self-confident, smug young doctor drinking wine in an airport bar. Flying on to her residency and leaving Starling with only a sentence or two to hold onto and a theory no one else believed.
He spoke about you. He cares about you, very much. Thinks about you, every day.
"Agent Starling?" one of the gray men asked.
"Clarice!" Pearsall stage-whispered, tugging her sleeve to get her to sit down.
She sat.
"What the hell are you doing?" Pearsall whispered into her ear. "Look, I know it's been stressful, but you want these guys to think you're a good agent who's got it together. You don't stand there and gawp at them."
"Sorry," she managed.
One of the gray men stood up. It was the one who had asked her about counseling.
"Well, Agent Starling," he said, "obviously, the purpose of this hearing is to determine whether or not you should be reinstated. Given that we now have proof you are not guilty of what you were accused of doing, it's clear that full reinstatement without prejudice is what is called for here."
"Thank you, sir," Clarice stammered. Just say your damn piece and let me get back to my desk.
"On a personal level, I'd like to say something, though."
Clarice fought valiantly to avoid rolling her eyes.
"I spent time on the job myself, years and years ago. I've had to fire my weapon myself, and had to watch other agents who had to deal with the aftermath of having to do it. It's not easy, Starling, and you should not try to go it alone."
Starling's hands bunched. She wanted him to say his piece and get done with it. If he wanted her to, she would get a whole box of tissues and cry in each and every one of them if it got her the hell out of this meeting and back to Hannibal's House, where she could make some phone calls and run some checks.
"This isn't like it was in Hoover's day, Starling. We've got counselors and people who can help you. Don't be afraid to use them."
Thanks, but I know a good psychiatrist, Clarice thought. Instead, she smiled prettily, displaying her white teeth.
"Thank you, sir," she said respectfully.
"Agent Starling, you are hereby reinstated without prejudice. Agent Pearsall, please return Starling's ID and weapon. This hearing is dismissed."
Those were words Starling had waited so long to hear, ached bitterly until she could hear, and now they were simply an annoyance. Pearsall grinned like a kid and reached into his pocket. With a flourish, he handed her back a flat black leather case and her FBI encrypted cell phone.
"I had them on me," he said. Despite Clarice's feelings towards most of her superiors in the FBI, Pearsall was a decent guy, a man who wanted to be fair. "Congratulations. Good to have you back, Starling." She smiled back at him for him.
"Your gun's over at Quantico. I need to send out the good word before you can get it back, though," he said as they walked out of the hearing room. "Paperwork, you know how it is. Give me an hour or so, will you?"
"That's just fine," Clarice said tightly. "Is my office still there? They didn't give it away, did they?"
"Hannibal's House down in Behavioral Sciences? Yes," Pearsall said, eying her suspiciously. "What's the big deal, Starling? Here you just got reinstated and it's like you've got ants in the pants."
"I think I know where he went," Clarice said through gritted teeth.
Pearsall raised his finger as if instructing a child. Clarice let out a frustrated sigh. She knew where this was going. More lecture. Her father had not lectured her half so often as the FBI.
"Starling, calm down. I know, you're pumped to get back on the job. But I need to talk about a few things with you."
"What?" Clarice demanded.
"Once you were on suspension, we had a new guy take on the Lecter investigation," Pearsall said.
"What? Well fine, tell him he's off duty. Lecter's my case." She crossed her arms resolutely.
"Starling, listen. Your first official act back on duty will be to shut up for five minutes and listen to me."
Clarice tapped her foot and listened.
"The guy on the Lecter case now is real good. His name is D'angelo. Agent Paul D'angelo. Real good profiler."
"So I'm off the Lecter case?" she protested. "You know, I'm the one who came up with the search patterns that started popping up Dr. Lecter's magazine subscriptions."
Pearsall's eyes flared. "Starling, dammit, let me finish."
Clarice shut up, but her blue eyes burned at him.
"Your second official order is this: you are TDY'ed to Behavioral Sciences to assist Agent D'angelo in the Lecter search."
"Assist?" she asked archly, venom dripping from the word.
"Yes. Assist. Starling, I know you've been through a lot and all. But I'm going to have to ask you to cut the prima donna crap."
"All right," she grumbled.
"According to the paperwork, you will assist Agent D'angelo in trying to find Dr. Lecter. Personally, I think you'd get along great with him if you gave him a chance and quit acting like a little kid who's being forced to share her marbles. You've both got heavy psych backgrounds. He's smart and he's good, Starling."
Starling realized that it wasn't going to get much better than that and sighed. Hopefully the guy would be the type to let her get some work done. If it was another Krendler type, she would simply go get another cranial saw herself. Couldn't be that hard.
So she went along with it. Pearsall took her to Quantico and arranged to get back what had been taken from her. The gunny at the armory gave her her .45 back. Its aroma was redolent of gun oil and she was pleased that it had been well taken care of. Starling loaded it and put it in her holster. There were more forms to fill out. Forms for receipt of her weapon. Forms for her ID. Forms for her phone. Forms for her key cards. Forms for ammunition. Clarice had not signed so many damn forms at once since she had bought her duplex.
"Maybe I ought to quit and become a consultant to the FBI instead," she quipped to Pearsall.
Pearsall grinned. Despite himself, he thought Starling was all right.
"Nah," he said. "You know the forms those people have to fill out?"
Then they were in the elevator, heading down to the subterranean offices of Behavioral Sciences.
"Crawford wants to see you," Pearsall said. "He has to sign off on your TDY."
Clarice nodded.
Jack Crawford waited in his office, his thin face calm. His eyes swept over Starling as she and Pearsall came in.
"Starling," he grinned. "Good to have you back. You'll be TDY with D'angelo."
"Agent Pearsall told me, sir," she said quietly.
"D'angelo's a good guy, Starling. Give him a chance."
"So I've heard, sir," she confirmed. "I'll be nice. No broken bones."
Then it occurred to her that it might not be that funny after all. Crawford simply grinned politely and rose from behind his desk. He signed off on the form that assigned her to temporary duty with Behavioral Science. Clarice felt uncomfortably like a prisoner being assigned to a new cellblock.
She sighed. She had to stop thinking like this. The FBI was not her enemy. They'd taken her back. She could get Lecter.
And once you've gotten him, what are you going to do with him? Do you really want to bring him in?
Of course I am, she told that inner voice.
Hannibal's House was not far from Crawford's office. Crawford stuck his head inside the curtains.
"Hey, Paul? Come on out here for a moment. There's someone I want you to meet."
From inside her office came a tall, dark-haired man. It had been a while since he last had a haircut, Clarice noted. His hair was thick and bushy and added a few good inches to his height. He wore a wrinkled blue shirt and Dockers.
"Clarice Starling, Paul D'angelo", Crawford said.
"Hi," he said, and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you."
"Agent D'angelo," she said calmly, and took his hand.
"I sorta took over the investigation. Nice to have you on board," he added.
"I'll let you two get acquainted," Crawford said, and left. Pearsall departed too. Clarice went into the curtains of her former office.
The place hadn't changed much. Paul D'angelo had put up a few pieces of posterboard on which he had taken careful notes of Dr. Lecter's preferences in cars, food, and antiques. Some things were written in red, some in blue.
"Looks like you haven't changed the place too much," she said. "Hey, can I hit the computer for a minute?"
Paul D'Angelo chuckled. "Crawford put in a chit for a computer for you," he said. "I've got a laptop signed out to me." He indicated it where it sat on a desk. "Feel free to use that for the time being."
Clarice attempted to log in, but her electronic credentials had not been restored yet. She grunted in frustration.
"Here, use mine," Paul said, and tapped out his login and password quickly. "I know, all that paperwork, it sucks."
"Yes it does," Clarice said with a sigh.
"There you go, then. Just don't go robbing any Swiss banks while you're logged in as me." he said with a grin. Clarice smiled herself. Thankfully, he did not feel the need to supervise her while she worked.
Clarice stared at the posterboard. "So what does this all mean?"
"The red stuff is magazines and stuff we know Dr. Lecter read before," he explained. "The blue stuff is mostly stuff that might attract his eye. Magazines that started publishing after his incarceration, stuff like that. You never know when you might get a hit."
Clarice nodded. It was a good idea. "How much information do you have on Lecter?"
"Everything I can get," he said promptly. "Trial transcripts, the whole nine yards. Weapons. Case files from the murders. You did a great job in getting all the Lecter documents together, by the way. I never talked to him myself, though. That's where I'm hoping you can help."
Clarice smiled tightly. At last, some goddam respect.
"Agent D'Angelo," she began, "I don't know what you expect out of me. But I have a good idea as to where Dr. Lecter may be, or where he may have gone."
"You mean the plane?" he asked. "We've found it. Little puddle-jumper, but it got him where he wanted to go quick. I also found out that Lecter had taken some flight lessons years and years ago. Before he was committed. Took some work, but there it was." He indicated a folder atop the desk. "And you can call me Paul. Seems we're going to be cube mates."
Clarice took the file and looked at it. It was quite calm and straightforward: three receipts from a flight school indicating that Dr. Lecter had taken three flight lessons about a year before his incarceration. Still, she was impressed by it. At least someone was thinking.
"OK, then, Paul," she said, and decided she liked Paul D'Angelo after all. "Tell me a little about yourself."
"Well," he said, "I was a DC patrolman while I went to school. Master's in psych from Georgetown. Seven years in the field offices as a grunt. Now I'm here." He turned back to the computer and tapped a few keys as he continued.
"As for you, Agent Starling, you're a graduate of the University of Virginia, double major in psych and criminology. No master's degree, which I think you're nuts not to get. Did a fellowship under Jimmy Price as his lab wretch. You must enjoy pain, Starling, that guy's tough to work for. Brought down Buffalo Bill a few years ago, been running jump-out squad duty ever since. That butthead Krendler didn't like you too much." He lowered his voice on the last sentence so that no one outside would hear.
Starling raised her eyebrows. "Very good. And you can call me Clarice." In a lower voice, she asked, "So you didn't like Krendler either?" Her tone was satisfied.
He shook his head. "He was acting so damn smug after…well, after you. Came in barking up and down about how I had to make sure he was copied in on everything. Said I'd be joining you at Starbucks if I didn't. Big time butthead." He rolled his eyes. "I had a feeling it was Lecter when he came up missing. Tough break for him, but it's well known that Lecter will leave you alone if you're not rude."
This guy is all right, Clarice decided.
"What was that like?" he asked. He seemed interested.
"I don't really want to talk about it," Clarice answered. "I have a lead I want to follow up on."
Paul indicated the laptop with a grand sweep of his hand.
"A lead, huh? That's awful quick. I kinda wanted to ask you a few questions," he said.
"Ask away. I'll answer if I can," Clarice said. "Just let me do this first, ok?"
Clarice opened up the program she was looking for and tapped a few keys. She went digging in the FBI's archives for a particular old case file. She also pulled up the information for state licensing bodies for all fifty states from the FBI's intranet. She swore. Fifty calls she would have to make, just to be sure. Why hadn't someone made a form to do it all at once?
"I need to call state medical licensing boards," she said distractedly. "Would you help me out on that?"
"Sure," he said. "I'll take twenty-five, you take twenty-five. But you have to answer a question for me."
Clarice sighed. This guy seemed real nice and all, but in the end it all came down to questions. Men and their questions. Quid pro quo. Maybe he'd take her out to dinner and feed her someone's brain next.
"What was it like?" he asked eagerly. "I mean, Lecter usually killed everybody. Nine victims – well, ten now, with Krendler. Two survived. One was paralyzed and the other was in a loony bin in Denver. But you walked out without a scratch."
"So what's your question?" Clarice countered. "I know all that."
"I know you were. I mean—it's just -- doesn't it freak you out to know you're the only person who ever was with Hannibal Lecter and walked out in one piece?" he asked.
Clarice turned away from the monitor of the laptop and let him see the file she was looking at. It was a five-year-old file. In large black letters across the top, it read: KIDNEYHEIST.
"That's just it, Paul," she said calmly. "I'm not."