Author's note:  So people want the GD to eat the Wiggles?  My, I didn't realize that there was so much anti-Wiggle feeling amongst the Lecterphiles.  For now, it's time to introduce a couple of characters – one you haven't met before and one you may remember.   

                The meeting room was somewhat tense.  The agents all around the meeting table had all been selected for the prison project.  They'd all been photographed and fingerprinted a half hour before. They were all going to jail, and even though it wasn't permanent, it made them all nervous.  A tense air hung around the room.

                Clarice Starling and Ardelia Mapp were the only women in the room.  The other agents didn't seem to shun them though.  There was a grim camaraderie of the condemned around the table.  They waited calmly until Chief Conway entered the room. 

                "Good morning, people," he said.  "First off, I'd like to thank you all for coming.  This is an assignment that won't be easy.  It is the Senator's pet project, and maybe if we make her happy she may be willing to vote for higher FBI budgets.  And certainly, it's also worth saying that even prisoners deserve to have their basic rights respected." 

                He cleared his throat and continued. 

                "Each of you will be assigned a new identity for purposes of the program. At no time should you indicate to any prison official or prisoner that you are an FBI agent.  This isn't an easy assignment, as I said.  You'll largely be on your own from the day to day.  We do have some support for you, though.   We have two phone numbers for each agent.  One is supposedly your attorney.  Legal calls in most cases are not monitored.  Only use this if the shit hits the fan – if something happens that we need to know now. You're all good agents, and I'm not going to lecture you on the difference.  If you need it, it's there.  You be the judge of when you really need it.   There will also be a regular 'hello' line – that's a line that will be answered by someone saying 'Hello', not 'FBI'.  That's for less exigent circumstances.  Finally, there will be two addresses you can send mail to – again, one will be set up as your 'attorney'.  The other will be set up as your family.  It will actually go to a local FBI agent's home." 

                "Your job is to observe.  If you see abuses going on, document them.  Document everything you can.  Names.  Badge numbers, if you can get them.  If you see prisoners engaging in illegal acts, document that.  Do not attempt to intervene – we can't guarantee your safety if you do.  I don't mean to frighten anyone off, but let's face it, this is a tough assignment." 

                Another agent entered the room and began passing out folders.  Each one had an agent's name written on the manila tab.  Clarice glanced over at Ardelia, who studied hers and grinned.  When the agent gave Clarice hers, she opened her folder to discover her own mug shot and identity papers for her cover identity.  Her new name was Claire Hanson, she was from New York State, and she had been convicted of embezzlement and forgery.  Apparently, she was an identity thief. 

                Ardelia walked up to her and glanced at her folder.  "So what are you in for?" she asked conspiratorially. 

                "Embezzlement and forgery," Clarice said.  "How about you?" 

                Ardelia snickered.  "Remind me to keep the grocery money away from you," she said, and showed Clarice her own folder.  She was now Anna Milsford, and she had been convicted of felony theft in Florida. 

                "Heck, remind me to keep everything away from you," Clarice rejoined.  "Too bad.  I thought we might be cellmates." 

                Ardelia grinned.  "Guess not," she said.  "You got off lucky, though." 

                "Lucky?" Clarice asked.  "According to this I'm going to Bedford Hills!  It says here it's maximum security!" 

                'Delia shrugged.  "Clarice, hon, I'm going to a Florida prison, and summer is coming."  She sighed.  "Man, it's gonna be hot." 

                Clarice's mouth quirked. 

                A few of the male agents shared the same gallows humor over discovering their new identities and their crimes, and they traded the details to Clarice and Ardelia.   A few were thieves, a few were drug offenders, and a few were convicted of assault and manslaughter.  Conway cleared his throat to attract their attention.  The agents of the prison project all gathered around the table again. 

                "We're going to be inserting you agents in the prisons over the next few days," he said.  "I trust you have gotten your affairs in order.  The Bureau will take care of paying your bills and all that while you are undercover.  The first group will be inserted tomorrow in areas in the Northeastern United States."  He consulted a list.    "Tomorrow's group will consist of Agents Mackey, Nelson, Pickett, Sayeed, and Starling." 

                Clarice shivered.  This would be her last night in her own bed.  Tomorrow night she would sleep in a prison cell.  Locked down, far away from anyone she knew. 

                But this was important.  Despite herself, Clarice couldn't argue with the fundamental precept of the project: that even prisoners ought to have some sort of fair treatment.  She wondered what she would see.  Would it be hard time?  Would it be like in the movies? 

                Mapp cleared her throat.  "Hey," she announced to the other agents.  "Anyone up for a going-away bash?  Our place.  Eight o'clock.  Bring some beer and some food." 

                Clarice gave her friend a slightly shocked look.  "'Delia!" she stage-whispered.  "We can't have a party.  The place is trashed!"

                "C'mon, Clarice," Ardelia said, unrepentant.  "We're all going to jail.  Live it up now while you can." 

                Chief Conway grinned tolerantly at the two women.  "I'm not going to tell you not to, but I will suggest you move the timetable up, Agents Mapp and Starling.  Unless there are any other questions, you're all dismissed.  Have your fun now – Mackey, Nelson, Pickett, Sayeed, and Starling all need to be back here at 8 AM tomorrow to catch their flights." 

                Ardelia promptly rescheduled the party to two o'clock, giving her time to cook and get some beer.   The agents filed out, determined to enjoy their last day of freedom.  Chief Conway remained behind, arranging a few papers. 

                The door opened and he glanced over.  Deputy Assistant Attorney General Bob Sneed stuck his head in the doorway.  Conway nodded at him.  He'd always had mixed emotions about Sneed.  Clarice's, his deputy chief, were simpler.  She hated Sneed with a passion.  He didn't exactly know why, and he respected her enough to avoid poking in her file.  So far, Sneed hadn't tried any of his political games.  An uneasy armistice had shown up. 

                "Chief Conway," Sneed said calmly.  "Hi.  I just wanted to remind you.  You're needed at a reinstatement hearing." 

                Conway tilted his distinguished gray head.  "Reinstatement hearing?  No one told me about that." 

                Sneed shrugged.  "I told your secretary," he said glibly.  "Look, this is gonna be a cakewalk. The agent in question is requesting to come back from a medical discharge.  It's not disciplinary."  He made a short chopping gesture as if to indicate how simple it would be.  "Fifteen minutes and bang, we're done.  And you can use the help with Starling going on the prison project, right?" 

                Conway shrugged.  Federal guidelines meant he had to be there, but at this point it was a technicality.  Unless the agent in question had a disciplinary record, reinstatement was for all intents and purposes automatic.  So he went along with Sneed to a meeting room not far away.  There were a few people he recognized, and a young woman with strawberry-blonde hair and green eyes.  Her features were fine and patrician.  She stood with a haughty sort of politeness when he entered. 

                "Chief Conway," she said.  "Good afternoon.  It's nice to finally meet you.  I'm former Special Agent Rebecca DeGould." 

                …

                Erin Lander left the surgeon's lounge and went in to see her next patient.  Her last, Mrs. Banfield, had been pretty easy.  A pacemaker insertion, nothing too involved.  Here in Australia, she'd done more cardiac work than she had before.  The pace kept her busy, and that was how she preferred it. 

                She pushed open the door and saw a young blonde woman sitting on the hospital bed.  She smiled her usual professional smile.  Patients going into surgery were usually nervous.  She checked her clipboard again.  This patient was…Isabelle Pierce.  Bullet wound removal from the chest.  That gave Erin pause.  Bullet wounds?  She'd pulled enough bullets out of people back in Columbus to turn out her own line of bullet jewelry, but Isabelle Pierce wasn't the usual GSW victim.

                "Hi, Ms. Pierce," Erin smiled, not knowing her patient's marital status.

                "Hello, Dr. Litton," the woman on the gurney said, smiling a bit nervously. 

                "It'll just be a minute and then we'll have you into surgery," Erin said, and consulted the chart again.  It looked like this was just patch-up work.  Her own writing indicated where they were pulling bullet fragments out of Isabelle Pierce.  One was unpleasantly close to the heart, but Erin was pretty confident in her ability to get it. 

                Isabelle Pierce smiled nervously. 

                "So how did this happen?" Erin asked.  "Have you spoken to the police?" 

                The other woman smiled nervously again.  "Oh.  I am the police, Dr. Litton.  I'm a detective with the Sydney Police Department." 

                Erin nodded. 

                "I've been to America," Detective Pierce continued, trying to distract herself from what was about to happen.  "The National Academy.  Have you heard of that, Dr. Litton?" 

                Erin shook her head.  "I'm afraid not." 

                "The FBI runs it," she explained.  "For police officers in other countries.  They teach some of their techniques." 

                "That must be interesting." 

                "Yes," the detective said.  "I took courses in criminal profiling whilst there.  How to create psychological profiles."  She chuckled and shivered a bit, trying to ignore the fact that the woman in the room with her would be cutting her open and hunting for metal fragments in her body.  "We reviewed some famous cases.  Richard Speck, Norris and Bittaker, Hannibal Lecter, that sort of thing." 

                Erin paused.  "Pretty nasty stuff," she said with studied indifference.   "What made you study that?" 

                Detective Pierce shrugged.  "To help find them here," she said.    "Have you been in the country very long, Dr. Litton?" 

                "A couple of years," Erin admitted.  "My husband got a job as the curator of the museum."

                 "We seem to be growing our own here," Detective Pierce explained.  "Paul Denyer, for one. Ivan Milat.  William MacDonald.  Worrell and Miller.  Edgar Cooke.  And Steven Armington, which is how I got these bullets for you to take out." 

                Erin nodded, feeling the conversation swing back to safer ground.  "I heard about that," she said casually.   "He was killing prostitutes and strippers, wasn't he?" 

                "Yes, he was.  I profiled him.  Well, with some help from the FBI's Behavioral Sciences."  She shivered at the memory.  "Figured out where he probably was.  He matched my profile pretty well.  We came in to question him at his flat.  He ran at first.  I went after him first.  He turned around with a gun, and boom, here I am." 

                Erin nodded.    "Well," she said, "it doesn't look too bad.  Where did they treat you first?" 

                The detective eyed her.  "Sydney Hospital," she said. 

                "Looks like they did good work," Erin said.  "So you're coming here for the followup?" 

                The unspoken question – how a police detective could afford private health insurance – did not go unnoticed. 

                "My father's a big muckety-muck with Qantas," the detective explained.  "I was the youngest.  He's still a bit protective." 

                Erin smiled.  "Well, that's what fathers do," she said, idly thinking of her own father who had died when she was a young girl.  What would he think of her now?  Would he, a blue-collar electrician, be proud of his surgeon daughter?  Would it trouble him that she had fled with a serial killer? 

                They'd been together for so long.  She could hardly remember a time when she hadn't been on the run with her husband.  They'd settled here, hoping for safety.  Clarice Starling had agreed to let them be, but there were always those who would continue to pursue them. 

                "So how did you like those courses at the FBI?" Erin asked.  Calmly, she grabbed a nurse and asked her quietly to give Detective Pierce her pre-op and get her ready for surgery. 

                "Oh, they were great," the blonde woman said.  "Very interesting.  I got to meet someone I'd always looked up to." 

                "And who was that?" Erin pulled off the question as a bored bit of conversation. 

                "Oh."  The detective smiled nervously, aware that the time of her surgery was at hand.  "Agent Starling.  Clarice Starling." 

                Erin Lander tensed at the sound of that name.  Clarice Starling had always been the shadow over her.  When she had first met Dr. Lecter, she had suffered from kidney disease.  Dr. Lecter had kidnapped her and transplanted new kidneys into her.  And Clarice Starling had not been far behind, demanding that Erin tell her that Dr. Lecter had done the deed.  Years later, when she had been a surgical resident, Dr. Lecter had come to her, thumbless, and sought out her aid.  She'd surgically reattached his thumb.  And Clarice Starling had pursued them.  After that, he'd come back and sought her out again at the end of her residency.  They'd left the US together, and things had been happy for a few years.  And Clarice Starling had pursued them again, capturing Erin and holding her prisoner at Quantico.  She'd been pregnant then.   

                After that, Clarice had left them alone, promising to leave them to their peace.  But Erin would always wonder.  Was that promise good forever?  Was this Australian student of Clarice Starling the latest threat to her peace? 

                No, she told herself.  Everything's going to be just fine.  Just pull out the bullet fragments and everything will be just fine. 

                "Are you working on the cannibal-killer case?" she asked, wanting to move away from the subject of the other woman in Hannibal Lecter's life. 

                The detective nodded. 

                "How's that going?" 

                "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the investigation," the detective said.  She shivered nervously. 

                "I understand," Erin said.  "Well, let's get you ready.  I'll be in the OR.  The nurses will get you whatever you need.  We should be ready for you in just a few minutes." 

                Isabelle Pierce trembled a bit on hearing that.  Erin left her in the care of the nurses and entered the scrub room.  Almost automatically, her mind began to slip into a surgeon's mode of thinking.  She'd make her incision under the arm, where it wouldn't scar visibly.  If she could get the bullet fragments laparoscopically, that would be better.  Thoughts of Clarice Starling faded from her mind.  By the time she gloved and gowned, Isabelle Pierce was under anesthesia, and Erin's only thought was how to get the bullet fragments out. 

                All the same, she decided, she was going to try and hang around the detective when she woke up from the anesthesia. She'd be groggy then.  Erin had seen it before. You never knew what they would say.