Author's note:  A short chapter today.  Things will be picking up soon; juggling these subplots is a bit more work than I thought.  For now, Clarice gets a visit. 

                The visiting room at Bedford Hills was crowded and busy.  A visit was something most inmates treasured.  Unlike many prisons, contact visits were allowed here.  Clarice thought it was New York State's law.  She thought it was great.  She didn't take the opportunity to hold hands or hug and kiss that other inmates did, but she could see the effect it had on them. 

                Across from her sat Paul DaSilva.  He wore a blue suit and a red tie.  She thought he looked pretty good.  She didn't suppose she did.  A few weeks of prison had left her thinner and paler.  But she was happy to see someone from the FBI.  Someone from what she already was thinking of as the free world. 

                "So, how you doing?" he asked.  Agent Markham had been sick and so the powers that be had decided to replace him with DaSilva as her 'attorney'.  Once replaced, DaSilva had to play the role the whole way through. 

                She didn't mind.  She liked him.  He had a rough-and-ready manner.  No need for bullshit.  He cut to the chase and expected her to do the same.  In some ways, she thought, he was the opposite of Dr. Lecter.   But he seemed bright and capable at his job. 

                "I'm OK," she said.  "Listen, I got a lot of stuff.  It's all in my notebook in my cell.  I can't talk about it now, but there's a lot of stuff going on here that shouldn't." 

                He nodded. 

                "You look a little peaky," he said. 

                Clarice rolled her eyes.  "The food here is nasty,"  she said.   "Hey, listen, could you look something up for me?" 

                Paul shrugged and nodded.  "What did you need?" 

                Clarice took a breath and held it in.  But she did want to see. 

                "I wanted to know what we could find on Brittany Tollman," she said.  "Sentenced five years ago for first-degree murder, one count." 

                Paul looked a bit surprised.  "Her?  I heard of her.  Her and her boyfriend knocked over a lot of convenience stores.  Couple clerks got killed." 

                Clarice shrugged.  "She says she didn't kill anyone," she explained. 

                Paul rolled his eyes.  "Of course she's gonna say that," he said.  From his tone, he didn't believe it.  Clarice found herself suddenly annoyed.  Partially because she knew, too, that until she'd done this project she would've been the same way.  A crook claiming innocence?  Sure, yeah, right, whatever. 

                Clarice sighed.  "Look, I'm just curious," she said.  "She admitted to knocking over the stores but said her boyfriend hit her until she did it.  I just wanted to know if there was anything to her story or not.  If it's too much to ask, I'll do it when I get out." 

                Paul held up his hands.  "Okay, fine," he said.  "I'll look into it.  No big deal.  Other than that, you need anything?" 

                Clarice chuckled.  "Nothing you can give me that isn't contraband," she said.  "Put some money in my commissary account if you want to help.  That's the only thing you can do." 

                Paul grinned.  "OK," he said.  "No sweat, I'll put some money in for you.  Couple hundred oughta do you, right?" 

                Clarice sighed with relief.  Amazing how much that account meant.  And it held so little, in real terms.  A hundred dollars to an inmate was a king's ransom.  She wanted a Walkman to pass the time.  Her cellmates both owned one, and were usually reasonably nice about letting her use theirs, but she didn't want to scam any more than she had to.  Already, even after three weeks, she was starting to think like one of them. 

                "So," DaSilva said.  "Our bosses want to know if you can be out in thirty days or need to stay in for more time to complete your report." 

                Clarice paused.  She really hated prison.  There was no doubt about that.  She had a lot of stuff that would interest the authorities.  The oppressive sexual regime, for one, and there was a lot more.  Drugs, for one.  Drugs ran into the prison as if on a pipeline.  But she hadn't gotten everything.   And she found herself very, very loath to simply walk away from the inmates who needed her.  It seemed to her that she was their only voice.  Only she would be able to do something about what they suffered. 

                "Can I split the difference?" Clarice asked.  "Give me another fifteen days." 

                DaSilva nodded.  "No sweat," he said.  Then he chuckled.  When he laughed, his entire face seemed to light up.  When not smiling, he looked rather like a Mafioso chieftain.  But smiling took ten years off his face and he looked like a happy kid.  "Man, I never thought I would've heard someone asking to stay in prison longer than they had to." 

                Clarice shrugged.  "I have a job to do," she said calmly.  "Paul…you don't quite understand.  These women have nobody to stand up for them.  I feel responsible." 

                Paul shrugged.  "Well," he said, "they were convicted of a crime, or else they wouldn't be here," he said delicately. 

                Clarice made a face.  "I know," she said.  "But there are things you don't sentence people to.  There are things the guards here are doing…things nobody has the right to do, particularly when they wear a uniform." 

                Paul nodded.  "Fair enough.  I dunno though, I mean, they're supposed to be the good guys.  You ever feel kind of weird turning them in?" 

                Clarice thought about it for all of thirty seconds and then shook her head. 

                "No," she pronounced finally.  "Not at all.  The law's the same for them as anyone else." 

                Paul chuckled.  "Wow, you're really a convert to this project," he quipped. 

                Clarice nodded.  "These inmates…they've got nobody to stand up for them," she repeated, and realized she was sounding too gung-ho.  She grinned and softened it.  "Besides, it's better than joining a cult, right?" 

                "Hanson, your time's almost up," the guard seated at the desk said disinterestedly. 

                Clarice stood up and shook hands with Paul quickly.  She didn't want to antagonize the guards over legal visits.  They'd be plenty antagonized when they were arrested on multiple federal civil-rights violations.  That alone gave her the ability to carry on.  Besides, it wasn't like she was going to spend more than a few weeks here. 

                All the same, she reflected as they brought her back to her cell, she liked Paul DaSilva's visits. 

                Detective Isabelle Pierce sat outside the lieutenant's office with trepidation growing in her gut.  It had been only a few hours since the park.  Dr. Litton – Dr. Lecter, she just knew it – hadn't done anything to her.  Then again, what was he supposed to do?  Gut her right in the park? 

                No, instead, it had been subtler.  She'd gone back to her car and slunk away, the doctor's eyes burning on her back as she went.  She had the uncomfortable feeling that the smarter thing to do might be to move.  To Tasmania, perhaps.  Or California.  The good doctor was not known for liking police officers who pursued him. 

                After withdrawing from the park, her police radio had buzzed, ordering her to report back to her precinct.  The lieutenant wanted to see her.  Now she was here, cooling her heels outside his office.  She felt rather like a student sent to the principal's office. 

                The door opened.  The lieutenant poked his head out the door.  Detective Pierce swallowed. 

                "Come on in, Detective Pierce," he said. 

                She stood and entered the office calmly.  The scent of trouble was in the air.  A few other high-ranking officers stood around her.  They looked at her with little sympathy. 

                "Detective Pierce, perhaps you could tell us what you were doing mucking about in the park early this arvo," the lieutenant said. 

                Isabelle smiled nervously and then dropped the smile, as it didn't feel appropriate. 

                "I was pursuing a suspect," she said calmly. 

                "Ah, yes."  The lieutenant shuffled through some paper on his desk.  "You do know that there is a cannibal killer on the loose, don't you?" 

                "Of course," she said.  "That's what I was trying to do.  Track a possible suspect." 

                The lieutenant let out a theatrical sigh.  "Dr. Hamilton Litton, perhaps?" 

                From his tone, it was obvious that he did not believe her.  Isabelle cleared her throat. 

                "Yes," she said.  "Dr. Litton is an immigrant, and his file is rather sparse.  I wanted to talk to him."  And see if his wife has scars on her back, she added mentally.  "I also have some question as to whether Elaine Litton is everything she appears to be." 

                The lieutenant gave her a consternated look.  "Detective Pierce," he said thinly, "I just got a call from the bloody mayor.  He had gallbladder surgery a few years ago.  From Dr. Elaine Litton.  They're quite good friends now.   The Littons know people around here.  I had to explain to him what one of my detectives was doing at a park with the Cannibal Killer on the loose." 

                Perhaps it would be better to go for broke.  "I would like to fingerprint the Drs. Litton," she said.  "Bring them in and fingerprint them.  And examine Elaine Litton for scars on her back.  I believe that they are, in fact, Hannibal Lecter and Erin Lander, both of whom are wanted by the American FBI."  

                The lieutenant and the other officers digested that silently.  From the looks of it, they considered the request as likely as appointing her Prime Minister.    After a moment or two, the lieutenant spoke. 

                "Are…you…mad?"  he asked. 

                "Not at all, sir," she said politely. 

                "Bring in the Littons and fingerprint them?  You must be.   Do you know what would happen to us if we did that?" 

                "If they identify them as the people I believe them to be, then nothing at all," she said. 

                "And if you're wrong, we'll all be policing in some dusty little bush town, if at all.  Absolutely not.  The mayor is quite displeased to hear that you were mucking about in a park chasing down a mum and dad taking their boy to the park to play." 

                "But sir," she tried to continue, "Erin Lander fraudulently obtained German citizenship some years ago.  She's got a kidney transplant.  Elaine Litton never had an American driver's license.  What if she's doing it again?  What if she died in the USA and Dr. Lander got her identity?  She gets an identity that has citizenship so she can bypass the immigrations process, it would be a red flag to the FBI.  And I don't know how Dr. Lecter got around the fingerprinting process, but he did somehow." 

                "Enough!" the lieutenant said.  "There is simply no way that I am going to authorise you to bring in the Littons.  Bloody hell, we'd never hear the end of it from the mayor based on these…daydreams you've had."  His face turned red and he pointed a finger at her. 

                "But sir--," she said, knowing what he was going to say before he said it. 

                "Detective Pierce, I am giving you a formal order.  And these two men are my witnesses.  Your job is not to shadow a surgeon who's done no harm to anyone.  Or to shadow her husband.  Your job is to catch the Cannibal Killer.  You are to leave the Littons alone.  At all costs.  If I hear of you shadowing them again, you'll be suspended pending an investigation.  Do I make myself clear?" 

                Detective Pierce was more used to receiving accolades than discipline.  But she knew it was hopeless.  The Littons did know some big people.  Was this the clever act of a killer, isolating her before he…before he did what he'd done to Pazzi?  The thought of that made her shudder. 

                Or what if she was wrong?  What if the Littons were exactly what they appeared to be? 

                She'd never be able to find out, now.  Politics had won the day.  It seemed Dr. Lecter would continue to live right under her nose.  She thought of those merciless maroon eyes on her, asking her what she was doing going after his little boy, and found herself quite uneasy. 

                "Yes, sir," she said dejectedly. 

                Behavioral Sciences was calm when the first salvo in DeGould's battle took effect. 

                It was actually quite calm and quiet.  Several men in suits came calmly down to the department.  They did not make a fuss and they did not disturb anyone except for their target.  They went straight down to the office at the end of the hall.  This had been Jack Crawford's office until his death.  Now, it was occupied by his successor, Peter Conway. 

                The men entered the office.  Chief Conway looked up at them in surprise.  

                "Good morning," he said.  "Can I help you?" 

                One man stepped forward.  "Chief Conway, I'm Brad Dixon.  We're from the Office of Professional Responsibility."  His tone was curt and unfriendly. 

                Conway's eyebrows raised.  "Is there a problem?" 

                "I'm afraid so," he said.  "You're to come to a hearing tomorrow for the misuse of an FBI credit card." 

                Conway looked puzzled.  "May I ask what it's about?  I haven't done anything wrong with my credit card." 

                "According to this complaint," Agent Dixon said, "you used your FBI credit card three days ago to pay for a hotel room.  And hired…an escort, from an escort service." 

                A shocked look came over Conway's face.  He stared blankly from man to man.  None of them showed him any sympathy. 

                "But…but…I never…I…I didn't," he stuttered. 

                His cries did him no good.  The men paid him no heed.  Instead, they simply served him with the official paperwork.  They told him to be there the next day and to marshal whatever evidence in his own behalf that he had.   

                They were no easier the next day.  The evidence was pure and simple.  Chief Conway's FBI credit card had been used to pay for a hotel room suite and an escort.  Conway's defense was that he had not done it.  He was placed on administrative leave pending an investigation. 

                As Conway was escorted from the building, Rebecca DeGould picked up her phone and wondered.  It was so easy to get someone kicked out temporarily.  The FBI did not recognize due process for its own agents worth squat.  But that made her ultimate job easier. 

                She made two calls as she watched Conway go.  In a few days, once this was all said and done, she would make a few calls for him and get him a decent offer: pay back the money, retire quietly, and she could pull enough strings to get the OPR hounds off his back.  For now she had other moves to make. 

                DeGould's first call was to Bob Sneed.  Sneed thought it was great.  He'd enjoyed the hotel room and the hooker that DeGould had provided him.  He didn't seem to realize that he was now in her power, like it or not.  DeGould had hired an investigator and now had proof of Sneed being the one in the room.  She'd sit on it for now; she needed him in his job.   

                Her second call was to her second ally. 

                "Hi," she said calmly.  "This is Rebecca DeGould.  You remember me." 

                "Of course I do," the voice said. 

                "I'll be down in the late afternoon tomorrow to pick up Starling," she said.  "Carry out your side of the plan." 

                "Sure thing," the voice said, and hung up. 

                Rebecca DeGould hung up the phone, rested her head on her hands, and grinned.  Everything was going just great