Author's note: Since DeGould seems to be on the unpopular side of things for some reason, you get another DeGould-free chapter. (She's still plotting away, though.) And it's time to actually meet our copycat killer…
Clarice decided shortly after her betrayal that she'd been entirely wrong before.
Before, she'd had markedly little sympathy for them. If you did the crime, she'd always thought, you should do the time. If there weren't books or exercise equipment, that was just too bad. But now, she found herself earnestly sorry for what she'd thought. No one deserved this.
She wasn't even sure how much time had passed. She was a stranger to the sun. Hours and hours passed in her cell. She would hear women screaming and crying behind their own cell doors. Occasionally they would pound. Clarice didn't. She knew it would be no help.
Beck occasionally grinned at her victoriously through the door when he passed by. She knew that she had to do something. She had to think of something. But there seemed to be so little she could do. She was locked in here, abandoned and forgotten. She was supposed to get an hour on a single-woman rec yard a day, but she didn't always get it.
Nobody knew she was here. Nobody cared. Most of the guards were simply drones; they fed her, they gave her supplies, and they ignored her. She'd seen them ignore some of the most pathetic pleas for mercy Clarice had ever heard. It was harrowing. How could they be so hard-hearted? Someone pleading for toilet paper and the guards didn't care. For God's sake.
Part of her wanted to simply go mad; another part of her wanted to fall asleep and never wake up again. Another part of her wanted to simply throw herself against her cell door and bang on it until someone paid some kind of attention to her. And a third part of her simply wanted to slip into madness.
On her fourth day in solitary, she made herself concentrate. It was hard; being locked in a tiny cell and left here. It was hot and there was no air conditioning, or even movement of air for that moment. Her stifling little cell was enough to drive her mad.
Clarice did what she had to do to make herself think. She stripped off her jumpsuit and ran water in her small steel sink. First her towel went in the sink, and she wiped herself down with that. It was incredibly cold against her fevered skin. Then she wadded up her jumpsuit and shoved that into the cold water. She took off her cheap cloth sneakers and wiped down her bare feet.
OK, she thought. I'm Brittany now; Brittany's me. DeGould got her out instead of me. What do I have to do now? How do I get myself out of this?
There wasn't anything she could do. She was abandoned, locked in here forever.
Quit thinking like that, she told herself. I need a phone call. That's what I need. I need to get on the phone and get someone to help my ass out of this mess.
Phone call. OK. That would work. Beck wouldn't give her one, but Beck hadn't been around today. He had to have a day off sooner or later. Was that today? She had to find out. Clarice approached her door and cleared her throat. She knew there was someone in the cell next to her, but didn't know who or what. This was weird.
"Hey," she said in a strong and clear voice. "Hey, you awake over there?"
A Hispanic-accented voice replied from her left.
"Yeah, I am," it said. "Whatchoo want?"
"I'm Claire. How're you?"
"Lousy. Ain't you?" It was damned weird talking to a disembodied voice.
"Yeah," Claire said. "Do you know if Beck is on today?"
"Nah," the voice said. Clarice's stomach fell. The voice continued. "He's off today. Fridays and Saturdays he's off. You got something going on with him?"
OK, Clarice thought. No Beck today. Good deal.
"Any of these officers willing to let me call my lawyer?"
The voice thought. "You mean officially or…you gonna do something for him?"
Clarice stopped. She knew damned well that sex was often the medium of trade among inmates. Beck had made his desire to make her his little love-puppy obvious, before she'd been unmasked and abandoned. She'd never, never done such a thing. She still didn't want to.
On the other hand, she thought, some guards seemed better than others. If she had to do this in order to get a phone call quick, better it be one of the guards who treated the guards decently than someone odious like Beck. If Beck was off today, she'd have today and tomorrow and that was it.
"We'll see," Clarice said.
It galled her to do this, but she didn't see any other way. She wanted a phone call now. Maybe she wouldn't have to go too far down that slippery slope. So she stood at her door and waited until lunch was served. She eyed the guard handing the tray through her food slot. Parker. This guy was relatively decent. He didn't yell at the prisoners or call them bitches as a lot of guards did. Well, better him than Beck.
"Hey," she said. "Can I call my lawyer?"
"No phone calls during meals," he said.
Oh boy. This made her nervous. She smiled lasciviously and licked her lips.
"Look," she said. "This is my first time in solitary…I'm a good girl, really. I just wanna call my lawyer." She essayed a fake grin and felt suddenly very dirty. Now, she thought, she could understand much, much better what Brittany had been talking about. If you had to be reduced to this, maybe it was better to choose whom you did it with rather than have it forced on you.
"We'll see," he said.
"I can show you how good a girl I can be," Clarice said, and felt her stomach knot.
The guard chuckled. "Well," he said. Was he going to spurn her and simply leave her in her cell? Had Beck passed some sort of order on her? Leave Brittany Tollman alone, she's gonna be my little love-monkey.
Those thoughts flashed through her mind quickly. The guard simply chuckled. Oh please, oh please, she thought. Let me get a phone call. That's all I want.
"We gotta finish feeding," the guard said. "I'll see you later, how about?"
Clarice knew she should feel slightly dirty, at the least. But she didn't. She wanted a phone call. She needed a phone call. If this was what it took to get her what she wanted, that was fine. She'd do as little as she could to get away with it. A little hugging, a kiss, maybe. It couldn't be that bad.
She ate her tasteless meal with some trepidation. Half an hour later, the guard showed up at her door again. He grinned nervously as he unlocked her door.
She let him cuff her without complaint. They set off down for the lieutenant's office without a word. Clarice found herself blushing as she walked past the rows of cells. A few women therein looked out at her.
In the office, he took her cuffs off and closed the door. Clarice swallowed.
I am doing this for myself, she told herself. And no matter what, I will never, never do this for Beck.
In the end, it wasn't as bad as she thought. A little kissing, a little groping. Both of their clothes stayed on. High school stuff, really. Clarice closed her mind and found herself wondering, oddly, what Hannibal Lecter would have thought of this. She thought he would disapprove. Then again, he'd supposedly stuck his handcuff key up his butt to hide it, so they thought. He could shove his disapproval up his butt, too.
Then he took her down to the small phone room and locked her in. It was the size of a closet, with only a wooden bench on one side and a phone on a shelf on the other. A thick wooden door kept her confined. Clarice found herself quite pleased with herself. OK. When she got out of this she'd let Parker go.
She dialed a number swiftly and waited nervously. This was a phone that wasn't tapped. But then again, what if they did?
"FBI, New York Office," a busy voice said.
"Hi," Clarice said. "I need to talk to Agent Paul DaSilva."
She felt a twinge of nervousness. What if DaSilva was in on it? What would she do then? She couldn't do twenty years in here.
"One moment," the busy voice said, and Clarice heard hold music. A few moments later, a gruff voice with a Brooklyn accent spoke in her ear.
"DaSilva."
Clarice grinned and felt tears rise to her eyes at the same time.
"Agent DaSilva," she said. "It's Clarice Starling."
"Hey!" He sounded happy. "Heard you got out. How you doing?"
Clarice took a deep breath. "Paul," she said. "They didn't let me out. They let someone else out. I'm still in Bedford Hills. They switched my identity with someone else. I've got enemies, Paul, and I'm here in solitary confinement."
He sounded honestly stunned. "What?" he breathed.
She started to cry despite herself. "I had to just make out with a guard to get a phone call," she said, her voice thickening. "Paul, please. If you ask the FBI they'll tell you they got me out, but they didn't. They're holding me here under the name of Brittany Tollman. Can you come see me?"
"Your cellmate?"
"Yep."
"But…but…who the hell did this?"
"I'll explain when you come see me," she said. "Please. Paul, I'm in a real jam here. I need your help." She shuddered and put her hand on the concrete wall. "Will you…will you help me?"
There were a few seconds of silence, in which Clarice Starling died a few thousand deaths of fear. Would he simply say Yeah, right, and hang up on her? Would he believe her? Would he help?
"When you came out," he asked dubiously, "where did we take you for breakfast?"
Clarice grinned. "It wasn't breakfast, it was lunch," she said. "I had chicken marsala. I think you had penne."
He sounded more sure. "Okay. I'll come on down and see what I can do."
"Thank you," Clarice gasped, more grateful to hear that sentence than she had ever been before. "When will you be here?" Only once she had said it did she think it might sound pesty.
"Tomorrow, maybe," he said. "Does that work for you?"
"Course it does," she whispered. "Thank you, thank you so much, Paul."
Then she hung up the phone and let Parker take her back to her cell. She sat down on her bunk and cried. It wasn't the first time she had cried in her cell, but it felt a thousand times better. Before, there had been tears of despair. Now, she cried tears of relief.
…
The killer was pleased.
The police could try and catch him, but he was safe. Quite safe. They could spin their wheels all they liked. There was no chance of him ever being caught. He was far smarter than they were.
That Detective Pierce made him wonder, though. She seemed pretty bright. She'd also been to the USA once to be trained by the Yanks. All the same, she seemed hung up on the idea that Hannibal Lecter was in Sydney. At first he thought the idea was bloody silly. But then it occurred to him that it might be possible. All the same, she knew about all that profiling bit the American FBI did so well. If she ever got off this Dr. Lecter-is-here kick, she would have to disappear very quickly.
His home was Spartan. A visitor – if there had ever been a visitor in the house, which there hadn't – would have wondered if the house was actually occupied or a model. The kitchen was a study in cleanliness and angles. The living room resembled a model home where no one lived. The order pleased him.
On his bookshelves were copies of all twelve true-crime books written about Hannibal Lecter. He'd been a young man in school himself when he first learned about the murderous psychiatrist. Something in the man's crimes had touched him. He'd already known by then that he was different from others. He felt no remorse and never had. He didn't quite understand why he should. He still didn't.
But ah, Dr. Lecter, now there was someone to look up to. Pictures clipped from the newspapers – both American and Australian – decorated his scrapbook downstairs. He'd also printed out some pictures from the Internet; you could do that these days. Dr. Lecter did not care what society dictated. He, too, had no conscience. The lack thereof had not bothered him. He was a true hero, the killer thought.
His first few murders had been simple, quiet things. At the time, he'd driven far from home in order to pull them off. It had been relatively easy to find himself victims. He'd pick them up, bring them home, kill them, and carefully remove parts from them. Getting rid of the bodies was simpler. He drove the bodies far out into the bush on weekends. He wasn't worried about anyone finding his original victims. All that would remain of them now was a few bones marked by dingo teeth.
Now he didn't worry about such things. He found his victims just as he had before. The police found the bodies eventually, but he was still unruffled. They weren't quick enough to catch him. He knew that very well. The only one that worried him was Pierce. And he could take care of her if he needed to.
Calmly, he took his keys and headed out to his car. As he got into his car, he thought back to his first few murders. He had killed other men. His idol had mostly done the same. But Dr. Lecter's third victim had been a woman. Perhaps it was time for him to do the same.
He wanted to emulate his idol, and he would do so. His meal this time would have to be a fine, high-class victim. He knew who he wanted; he'd seen her before. What to choose? He would need to select that once he had her in his grasp. Kidneys? Liver? Spleen? He'd heard that all three could be quite tasty once prepared properly.
His car was older but well maintained. It purred along nicely. Eventually, he would like to own a better car. A Bentley, perhaps, to be more like his idol. For now, the older Ford would have to do. He kept it astringently neat, just as his home was. No litter or other detritus was to be found anywhere inside the vehicle. In his trunk, he had a roll of garbage bags neatly arranged in a corner. There was also a working kit: a blackjack, a crowbar, some rope, rags, and an extra set of clothes.
He saw his prey driving along the Harbour Bridge. He knew her schedule fairly well. He could intercept her without too much issue. It was a simple matter to slide his big Ford behind the Mercedes. She had the top down, and her hair blew in the wind.
She was heading towards Watson's Bay. The killer knew that she lived there. He did not intend to take her here. No; far better to do it quietly. He followed her along, staying back far enough that she would not be suspicious. When she turned in at the large white mansion on the water, the killer found himself somewhat shocked. He saw the name Litton on the mailbox, and he knew his prey was well-off, but the sheer magnificence of the residence amazed him.
He cruised along past the house with nary a care in the world and drove for a few kilometers. Then he turned around and headed back. As he passed the house again, he noticed a Holden pulled over by the side of the road. When he saw who was standing in front of it, he was puzzled.
Detective Isabelle Pierce stood by the Holden, glaring at it as if it had wronged her. The killer pulled over behind her and got out of his car. She glanced over at him curiously, her eyes narrowing.
"G'day," she said guardedly.
"G'day, Detective Pierce," he said. "Problem with your car?"
"Yes," she said, looking at him calmly.
"Do you need a ride somewhere?" he offered. "What's wrong with it?"
"I think it overheated," she demurred. "Just…give it a few minutes and I'll try it again."
The killer pondered. Was she on to him? He didn't think so. Why was she pursuing his prey? It seemed awfully convenient that she was here, right by the mansion on the water. He turned his head and saw three figures on the deck. A young boy, an older man, and his prey. All three figures were silhouettes against the setting sun.
"You seemed quite interested in Hannibal Lecter in the meeting today," the killer said. "Do you think he's in Sydney?"
Isabelle Pierce eyed the killer carefully. "I'm not sure," she said. "It's something we ought to check into."
The killer studied her and considered. She didn't know who he was, he was sure of that. She thought of him as his job. All the better. He could keep perfect track of how the investigation was going. Bloody brilliant, when you came down to it.
"Well," he said, "I've got to be on my way. If you're sure you don't need a ride or a hand….,"
"I'll be fine," Detective Pierce told him. "Thank you, though."
As the killer drove away, he watched her in his rearview until he finally turned a bend in the road and could not see her any further. Yes, he thought, Detective Pierce would have to go. It was safer that way. Then he would seek out his prey.
