Disclaimer: No characters from the realm of Thomas Harris belong to me. I'm just manipulating them in ways I'm sure would make him weep.
Chapter Seven.
The crime scene was in a Paris park, they arrived at just past 4pm evening was beginning to creep in, the wind cooler and the shadows darker. Police officers lined the park fence and police warning tape had been unrolled all the way around, billowing and making a slight 'whirring' sound in the breeze.
Tall trees, ashes and oaks, sycamores and a chestnut lined the curving gravel path that ran around the park's outer edges, as far as the eye could see. The grass was springy beneath their feet and kept short, the borders well maintained and the flower boxes weeded, there was no visible graffiti, and Clarice noted that the area seemed 'upper class' the nearby buildings obviously privately owned. Leaves skittered across the path she walked on, dancing in rising circles before collapsing lifelessly as the eddies of the air stilled, her feet disturbed them from their rest, and she felt vaguely guilty when she stood on them, as if she had taken a life.
Pierre and her were led across the grounds to where a park bench was, surrounded by people in white overalls and where a white police tent was being erected, the trees overhead formed a dark green lattice work of leaves, putting the corner into a shifting shadow. Under the tent doorway and Clarice steps over a loose newspaper sheet that has been lifted by the wind, the men have secured the tent now -pulled it around the park bench and the body is visible. At least, part of it, there is a surplus of newspaper sheets, mostly covering the body, a police officer is carefully removing the ones left, they are stained dark, so that the ink has run and the papers glued together.
The victims blood, Clarice realises, she moves closer, and manages to see the face -the first thing they uncovered, bite marks above the eyebrow? Too much blood to see clearly, both eyes are missing, leaving bloody gouged out sockets and the mouth gapes open, slack in death, or terror. The tongue is not visible, as she catalogues the injuries visible, Pierre moves up beside her and murmurs, as most do in the presence of the dead perhaps in an illogical fear of waking them perhaps just respect for the deceased.
"They think it is a homeless man, the newspapers you see?"
"No- his shoes" Clarice points down to the polished brown lace ups, Pierre looks surprised.
"He may have stolen shoes but I'll tell them to stop presuming" she nods to show she's heard, but her attention is drawn back to the body, as the police man in his distinctive whites, peals off the last soggy newspapers. A collective gasp, the policeman himself pales, Pierre mutters something in French that Clarice thinks is probably quite rude but she doesn't give a damn.
The man has been gutted, expertly slashed straight down, and then up, a neat loop, his entrails have been neatly arranged in a pile beside his body, and the his hands are clenched into claws -frozen in death. Clarice is sure they will find his own blood and skin under his nails for sure he died trying to hold his intestines in, helpless to stop himself from bleeding to death. It looks like someone stopped to tidy him up- the neat pile and the newspapers, did the eyes come out before or after the gutting and death? Did his murderer watch whilst he died? Did he know the murderer? Is the murderer Dr Lecter…99.9% sure.
A camera is flashing, as the men come forward with a body bag, she watches as they expertly slide the body in and zip it up…up…just a bald head now with a few strands of hair, something is bothering her, but she can't think what. She looks, frowning at the ground, a gust of wind hurls a newspaper so that it curls around her leg, and she reaches down to free it and sees, in the gathering dusk of evening, the name of the paper. The Tattler and the headline, FBI Agent Clarice Starling to Pursue Hannibal 'the Cannibal' in Paris. What's wrong with this picture? Clarice stares at the mug shot of Hannibal Lecter, reads some of the article, and it clicks, it's in English, this guy was not French, inspiration hits and she walks towards the pile of loose papers that were pulled off the body, some wet with his blood. Bending down she uses a plastic bag to rifle through the papers, towards the end they get stickier and she is aware that Pierre is behind her, obviously curious as to what she is doing, but trusting her judgement. When she reaches the end she has a nasty suspicion who the victim is, no was, she stands stiffly, it took awhile to go through all the papers, she gestures to the translator, a middle aged man.
"Every single paper was from the Tattler an American newspaper, they were all in English, and the paper is a few days old, the title of the piece is on Hannibal Lecter and my journey to Paris to pursue him. I think this was done deliberately by Dr. Lecter". The translator listens intently then turns to Pierre and explains in fast French, all the other officers are listening, she can't tell how much they hear, but know they caught 'Hannibal Lecter' the translator turns back, he has a thick French accent as he talks and gives her Pierre's reply.
"The … officer asks is you think this is some kind of message, or challenge? Is he trying to communicate with you?"
"I'm not sure" Clarice purses her lips thoughtfully and looks at a graver Pierre, "I think I know who the victim was, and I think he was American"
"Who?" ask Pierre himself, who understands most of what she says.
"A man who sat next to me on the plane here-"
"I am sorry"
"No need, he was extremely annoying, he was reading that newspaper and…" they look at each other both thinking the same. Pierre voiced the thought,
"Dr Lecter perhaps did this, for you. Has he not been known to do so before?"
"Yes" and I can't say I miss Paul Krendler that much either, but this is, not again. 'Beauty and the beast' syndrome. A silence then, Pierre turns and orders some police officers, and Clarice is suddenly very tired, the hospital nurse had told her to go home and sleep it off, or else she'll end up collapsing as her body tries to compensate for the drugs in her system. Pierre notices, a sign from him and a young police officer dressed in the navy blue comes forward.
"Phillipe shall take you back to your hotel Miss Starling. We shall sleep and meet tomorrow"
As she sinks gratefully into the comfy car seat Clarice feels the crinkle of a piece of lavender scented paper that lies in her jacket pocket, hidden from prying eyes, how she intends to keep it, Dr Lecter's letter.
