The next meeting of the Cannibal Killer task force was rather interesting, Isabelle Pierce thought. There was a forensic psychiatrist there. She'd had some training in profiling and wanted to ask the fellow a question or two.
Yet still, being ordered off pursuing the Littons irked her. There was so much that suggested that Dr. Hamilton Litton might be Hannibal Lecter. His immigration records indicated that he had a scar on his left hand. He was the right age and the right height and weight. His face looked sort of like the cannibalistic psychiatrist's, but that meant little. Elaine Litton was a surgeon; to make a new face for her husband or herself could not have been difficult. Even her own face resembled the fugitive surgeon the FBI sought to some extent.
But now she was ordered to leave them alone. She had no choice. Damnable as it was. She sat in the meeting room, watching the brass discuss the Cannibal Killer's latest victim. He was one Anthony Page, age forty. A singer in a local musical group called the Cockroaches. How very pleasant. Most of his innards had been removed with an expert hand. All of the horrors performed on the man had been dryly noted on the pathologist's autopsy report.
The pathologist, one Dr. McGregory, stood up. He was quite calm as he rattled off exactly what had been done to the unfortunate man. Oddly, the autopsy report noted that the body cavity contained small flecks of what appeared to be the man's innards. Had they been diced up? Also there was 'vegetable and grain pieces' found scattered throughout the interior of the abdomen. Hmmm. Isabelle put up her hand.
"Pardon me," she said. "May I ask about the vegetable and grain materials found in the victim's body?"
The pathologist eyed her calmly.
"Of course," he said. "There were small pieces of vegetable found in the victim's abdomen, where the organs had been."
"Well, yes, that's what it says here in the report," Isabelle acknowledged. "Were they put in there by the killer, or were they perhaps from the victim's stomach?"
"Most likely put there by the killer," the pathologist said. "I believe the vegetables were onions, and the grain material to have been oatmeal. That's not verified through tests, though. Just my opinion."
The psychiatrist stood up in front of them all, looking like exactly what he was: an expert here to lecture the rabble.
"Good morning," he said calmly. "If I may, I believe this to be a signal of the killer's contempt for his victims. He used Mr. Page like a garbage can, if you will. Once he'd removed what he wanted from the man, he used the body to get rid of the rest of the pieces."
Isabelle consulted her paperwork. Dr. Reynolds was his name.
"Perhaps he did," she said. "Was that for us, do you think? Or just a sign of contempt for the deceased?"
The psychiatrist shrugged. "I'm not sure," he said, observing her from pale blue eyes. "He's never written the police or rang them up, has he? I'm inclined to say contempt for the victim." He ran a hand through straw-blond hair and eyed her more carefully. "And you are…,"
"Detective Isabelle Pierce," she supplied.
The psychiatrist nodded and leaned back against the desk, sitting on the edge. "You've gone to the USA, haven't you? I've heard of you before. Steven Armington."
Isabelle smiled and nodded.
"Yes, right," she acknowledged. "Have you had a chance to compare the murders we've had with a series of murders in the USA? In Baltimore, specifically, twenty or so years ago."
Dr. Reynolds's eyes slid up as he tried to remember. "Did you have anyone in mind?"
"Yes, I did," Isabelle said. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter."
Reynolds chuckled. "Hannibal the Cannibal? Do you think he's set up shop in Sydney now?"
Isabelle frowned. Actually, yes, that's exactly what I think. I think he's here with his wife and his little boy. I think they hobnob with the wealthy here in Sydney and I think it's possible Dr. Lecter may depopulating the local ocker population.
"It's a possibility," she said archly.
The psychiatrist shrugged. "Technically, yes. However, from what I recall of his case, he's rather old. Usually, offenders of this type don't continue offending into their old age."
He wasn't rude about it, and so Isabelle decided to tread carefully. She couldn't go round shrieking 'Hannibal Lecter' from the rooftops when her superiors had ordered her to leave the Littons alone.
"Dr. Lecter is hardly the typical serial offender," she said. "He was known to have killed at the age of sixty. One Mason Verger and his associates."
The psychiatrist looked doubtful. "Yes, but he didn't initiate that," he said. "Verger came out after him. He killed him once Verger tried to feed him to the pigs, wasn't it? And besides, even so, that was almost ten years ago." He stopped and eyed her suddenly. "Do you have reason to believe that Dr. Lecter may be in Sydney?"
Isabelle suddenly felt slightly uncomfortable. Dr. Reynolds seemed to know a lot about his American colleague. She gritted her teeth under Dr. Reynolds's level gaze.
"No," she admitted.
On her scratch pad she noted: Check into Dr. Reynolds.
…
Solitary was a most effective punishment. Clarice realized this swiftly. She had nothing to do but stare at the four walls. Her breakfast had been served to her in her cell. A bowl of cereal with milk, a cup of coffee, and a plastic tumbler of juice. It had hardly been enough to do more than remind her that she was hungry. Lunch was the same way. They gave her a sandwich consisting of two squished slices of bread. One slice of meat and a smear of mayonnaise between them. A glass of juice – maybe six ounces. Well, she sure wasn't gonna get fat in here.
It was interminably, insufferingly, boring. She could understand now, far better than ever, why Dr. Lecter had been so dead set on escaping. She'd asked for rank and asked about library books or something like that. The guards didn't really care. To begin with, she was just another inmate. To add to that, she was a disciplinary case. She was here to be punished, and so they didn't feel any real urge to help stem the boredom.
Time moved slowly. Dinner was served. It, too, was meager and pretty gross. Occasionally Clarice could hear another inmate in lockdown pounding on the door, screaming for something. She found herself sympathizing sourly with them.
Around eight PM – or what Clarice thought was 8 PM, as she had no clock – she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Voices echoed against the concrete walls. One was female. The sound of heels clattering against the concrete also caught her attention.
"Yes, Lieutenant," the voice said, "I'm here to pick up one of our agents. She's actually a federal agent here undercover."
Clarice grinned suddenly. It was a little early, but hell, it was out of solitary. Then she found herself pondering. Had something happened?
"Yes, ma'am," a rough voice said. A-ha. It was Lieutenant Beck. Even better. Clarice got up and stood by her door, waiting eagerly. She looked forward to flashing her FBI ID at Lieutenant Beck. She looked forward even more to delivering a federal civil-rights summons to him.
Lieutenant Beck stopped by her door. Clarice grinned. Then he walked over to the cell across from hers and began to unlock it. Clarice frowned and began to pound on the door.
"Hey!" she said. "You got the wrong damn cell. I'm Clarice Starling."
Beck looked over at her. She couldn't see the woman FBI agent; she was standing too far out of the way. A cold smile came over Beck's face. Brittany Tollman blinked owlishly as she walked out of her cell.
"Hey! Get that agent over here! You got the wrong damn prisoner!" Clarice shouted.
Beck came over to her door and looked in at her. "Is there a problem?"
"Oh yes, there is," Clarice said. "I am the FBI agent. I'm Clarice Starling."
Beck beckoned for another few guards. He glanced over at the unseen agent. Then he looked back at Clarice.
"Turn around and cuff up," he said.
Clarice gave him a hard grin. He wanted to cuff her up? One last go-round to show who was boss? Fine. She'd still be out of here and he'd be indicted. She let him cuff her through the food slot and let him take her down to the office. She sat down in the hard, unpadded chair that was provided for inmates and waited.
Brittany Tollman entered the room, looking somewhat apprehensive. She wasn't handcuffed. Clarice eyed her curiously. For her part, Brittany simply blushed and looked away. Then the as-yet-unseen agent entered the office, closing the door behind her. Clarice gasped. A sinking feeling of horror and fear invaded her stomach.
Standing in front of her, dressed in a stylish skirt suit and pumps, was a woman she knew. Light reddish-blonde hair, patrician features, and gleaming green eyes.
Rebecca DeGould.
"So," DeGould said, "I understand you claim to be Clarice Starling….inmate." Her voice was exceedingly cold.
Clarice's jaw sagged. This couldn't be. It just…it couldn't. DeGould wasn't an FBI agent anymore. She'd been discharged after being worked over by a loony with a crowbar. And she had little to be angry with Clarice for. Clarice could've filed charges with OPR on her. After the ordeal the other woman had been through, she had elected to show mercy.
But it seemed Rebecca didn't see it that way. She was glaring at Clarice as if Clarice had murdered her family.
"Show me your inmate ID card," the woman demanded coldly.
Clarice's face worked. "Rebecca, what the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Show me your inmate ID card," DeGould demanded. She turned to Brittany.
"Agent Starling, wait outside, please." Brittany complied submissively. She gave Clarice one last guilty glance, then the door closed behind her, leaving Clarice alone with her tormentors.
"I don't have my card. It was in my cell," Clarice said. "DeGould, I don't know what you think you're doing. You don't really think you'll get away with this, do you?"
"I've got her card," Lieutenant Beck smiled, and reached into his pocket. He handed it to DeGould, who looked at it and smirked.
"Let's see," DeGould said calmly. "This looks like you." She held up the card and showed it to Clarice. Clarice's lips twisted as she saw her own picture. Next to it was the name Brittany Tollman. Sentence: 25 years to life.
"You bitch," Starling said, her face twisting. "I let you go, you know. I could've gone after you in OPR."
Surprisingly, DeGould did not look smug or cocky. She looked angry herself, as if she had a grievance against Clarice. She brushed her hair back from her temple. Clarice could see an ugly red scar there, curving back into Rebecca's hairline. That was where, a few years ago, Gregory Lynch had beaten her with a crowbar.
"You let me go?!" she spat back. "After your cannibal boyfriend sicced his pet psycho on me? I know you masterminded that, Starling. Lynch owned up to it. He's paid the piper. Lecter's turn will come, too. But now it's time for you to pay for what you did to me." DeGould's face turned hectic and red. "You know, I always knew you were a backwoods hick, Starling, but I never thought you capable of doing something like that. You're a woman yourself. And you have the nerve to say you let me go? You lying, two-faced bitch! "
She stepped forward then. Her right fist snapped back and then pistoned forward into Clarice's mouth. She wore a few rings on her fingers. She punched harder than Clarice might have thought for a small woman. Clarice's head snapped back. Stars danced before her eyes. She could feel her lips tear on DeGould's rings and tasted her own blood.
"Throw her back in the hole," DeGould told Beck. "I don't care what you do with her. Just keep her locked up tight." She leaned down over Starling and her face twisted.
"See you in twenty years, Clarice," she said. The door slammed shut behind her.
Clarice Starling raised her head and glared at Beck in utter hatred.
"You can't possibly do this," she said. "You know you're going down for this."
Beck chuckled.
"I told you before," he said. "You do for us, we do for you. You don't do for us, we don't do for you. Now look. She was a nice kid, she made a mistake. She shouldn't be here for life. She could make the most of a second chance." He chuckled coldly again. "But you…planning to sting my officers?" He shook his head coldly. "My officers work hard, every day. They get paid very little money to take care of these dangerous animals. My first concern is their safety and security. A bunch of do-gooder Feds coming around here pisses me off a lot. Too bad for you that the Fed here just got taken out of here."
Clarice glared at him, aware how powerless she was. But she was going to get this straightened out. Then Beck did something that made her blood run cold. From a drawer, he took her notebook. The notebook that she had been keeping her notes in. The notebook that detailed who she would be recommending charges for and for what.
"Now this notebook," he said. "Plans for assaulting an officer? Tsk, tsk." He shook his head. "Another thirty days in the hole for you."
"You're going to prison for this, you know that," Clarice promised. "Let me go now, and I'll drop false imprisonment and kidnapping charges. Don't make it worse than it is."
He laughed. "Am I? You forget something. We've got home court advantage. We control the records. Not you. If we say it didn't happen, it didn't happen. Nobody's going to be able to help you. You belong to us now. You've got twenty years to go before you're eligible for parole, so you might as well think about how you're going to act. Now you're going back to your cell for the next thirty-six days…Brittany."
Clarice knew she had to fight. She knew it was ridiculous. This couldn't be happening. No way could this last. Absolutely no way. She would fight them tooth and nail.
But they had the numbers, and after they had five officers pile into the office to grab her, her struggles were fruitless. She was shackled hand and foot and dragged to the cell across from where she had been quartered. Brittany's cell.
When the door slammed behind her, they took her cuffs off. Two women stood in front of her. Brittany Tollman, dressed in her suit, looking distinctly uncomfortable. She did not meet Clarice's eyes. Rebecca DeGould stood beside her, her hand on Brittany's arm. She had no such compunction, staring triumphantly at the woman in the tiny cell. It was just like her, Clarice thought. Just as she had once tried to do with Dr. Lecter's wife. She picked people whose backs were against the wall, who would do what she wanted because the alternative was so dire. DeGould turned and began to walk away with Brittany in tow. Clarice immediately began to pound on the door.
"I'm Clarice Starling!" she screamed. "You can't do this to me! I'm Clarice, goddammit! I'm Clarice Starling! I'M CLARICE STARLING!!"
But despite all her pounding and all her screaming, it accomplished not a thing. No one came to let her out. A convicted murderer was walking out in her place, wearing her clothes. She remained here, locked down in the hole where no one cared. Eventually her strength flagged and her fists and feet ached. She crawled over to the bunk, tears in her eyes and her throat raw.
"I'm Clarice Starling," she croaked. No one heard.
