Author's note:  This chapter took a while longer than I thought to come together.  But here we are, a four-scene chapter.  (This fic is beginning to remind me of the movie 'Magnolia'.  But there will be no rain of frogs.)   

                Detective Isabelle Pierce sighed and examined her file.  The latest body of the Cannibal Killer's victim had been found out on the docks.  She'd gotten the report from the pathologist, but she wanted to see for herself.  That meant a trip no detective particularly enjoyed making – a trip to the morgue. 

                She drove out into the dying summer day and headed over to the morgue.  It was a dull, boring little building.  Inside was dank institutional linoleum and fluorescent lights that hurt her eyes.  The dead were stored in bright steel lockers against the far wall. 

                On the slab was a body stored in a black vinyl bag.  The pathologist glanced over at her as she entered. 

                "Ah, Detective Pierce," he said.  Isabelle started, surprised that he knew who she was. 

                "Hello," she said. 

                "Dr. McGregory," he introduced himself.  "Here to look at the Lecter victim?" 

                She stopped for a moment.  Did he know?  Was she not the only one who suspected Dr. Litton?  She cleared her throat and smiled nervously. 

                "The Cannibal Killer victim, yes," she said. 

                "He's right on the table.  I'll open it up and let you have a look at him," the pathologist said.  "I'll warn you now, it's rather nasty." 

                Isabelle nodded. 

                "Just open it," she said. 

                The body did not look terribly mutilated at first.  A man in his mid-thirties.  Dark hair, reasonably well nourished.  The face was free of marks or mutilations.  On his abdomen was a gash just long enough to admit a hand.  The pathologist pointed at that. 

                "Very odd," he said.  "Slightly different from the other cases.  Three organs were taken in this go-round.  That's unusual." 

                Isabelle bent her neck over the gash and looked at it.  She did not flinch.  There were fragments of what seemed like a bloody handprint next to it. 

                The UNSUB approached the corpse from the right side and carved that gash into him, she thought.  Then he put his left hand on the side, right there, to brace himself.  It's not only unusual that he took more than one organ from the same victim.  You're feeling cocky now, aren't you? 

                All the prior victims were cut for meat, but the access cut was much, much wider.  Aren't you the showoff now?  Showing that you can reach through that little slit and grab your organs without looking at them.

                Or maybe your little surgeon wife did it for you.  She's got little hands and she reaches into bodies every day.

                "Do we have a name for this bloke?" she asked. 

                The pathologist shook his head dismissively.  "They're running his fingerprints now."   

                "What does his tox screen look like?" 

                Dr. McGregory took out a piece of paper and scanned it.  "Not much.  Some alcohol, .03 percent BAC.  A drink or two, maybe."   

                "Is the wound here what killed him?" 

                The pathologist shook his head.  "I'll have a full report for you and the rest of the task force shortly, Detective Pierce.  I was just about to begin the autopsy." 

                "Oh," she said.  "I won't get in your way, then."  As she walked back to the car, she tried to ponder what she had. 

                The killer was cocky.  Was that possibly because Dr. Lecter had gotten her off his case?  That made perfect sense.  Then again, perhaps it could be something else.  She thought back to her classes at Quantico.  Criminal profiling is kind of like trying to put a jigsaw puzzle together in the dark, Clarice Starling had said.  You never know what pieces you missed and what pieces you forced until you catch the guy and the lights come on. 

                Perhaps her former teacher would be willing to help on this one.  The FBI did such things, she knew.  They consulted to other countries when it was necessary.  Isabelle didn't even want a full-blown FBI task force down here.  Agent Starling for a few days, to bounce ideas off of and suggest new ones, would be fine. 

                And ask about Dr. Litton, don't forget that, her mind whispered.  

Isabelle Pierce returned to the station and sat down at her desk.  The horror of the previous victim wasn't lost on her.  She still thought the Littons were more than they seemed to be.  There had to be something she could do. 

                Her superiors had ordered her to leave the Littons alone.  The problem here, Isabelle thought, was that if Dr. Hamilton Litton was Dr. Lecter, and if he was responsible for the killings she had just seen, then she would gladly take whatever professional discipline they chose to mete out.  If she was wrong, so be it; if she were right, lives would be saved. 

                What would they do to his wife and the little tyke?  That wasn't her department.  But if Elaine Litton was Erin Lander, then the American courts would handle her.  She didn't think they'd do anything too horrible to the surgeon.  Dr. Lecter, however, would be another matter.  He was a serial killer. 

                Well, she could start by bolstering her case a bit. Glancing back and forth, she felt slightly guilty.  No one was paying attention to her.  Well of course they're not, she chided herself.  You're supposed to be here.  And you're supposed to be pursuing the Cannibal Killer.

  She opened up her Outlook and began to compose a new email. 

                That's exactly what I'm doing, she thought.  Her fingers clicked efficiently over the keyboard. 

                From: isabelle.pierce@police.nsw.gov.au

                To: cstarling@fbi.gov

                Subject: Information Request

                Good morning, Agent Starling,

                My name is Detective Isabelle Pierce.  I'm with the Sydney police department in Sydney, Australia. We've actually met.  I took some classes at the National Academy at Quantico about a year ago; you taught a few of the classes.  I don't know if you recall. 

                What I'm writing you for is to ask if there is further information you might be able to give out about Dr. Hannibal Lecter and his wife Erin Lander.  I tried to get some information off of VICAP, but it's a bit sketchy.  If you could lend a hand, it would greatly help our investigation.  We've got an active UNSUB and I think he's patterning himself after Dr. Lecter.  Thank you for any help you could give us in advance.

                    Detective Isabelle Pierce

               

                Detective Pierce spent a moment or two staring at the email.  Should she risk it?  How could she bloody well not?  Dr. Lecter should not be able to get away because his wife had done gallbladder surgery on the mayor of Sydney.  Perhaps Agent Starling could help.  She'd seemed very nice at Quantico.

                She clicked Send and sent the message halfway around the world in a heartbeat.   

                …

                Clarice Starling sat in her cell and pondered.  In her cell, she had nothing to do but think.  It hadn't been easy; part of her wanted only to panic and shriek.  But she forced herself to put that aside and think.  

                Paul DaSilva was on the level.  She knew that.  He'd promised to help her, and she sensed the timber of truth in his words.  He wasn't going to screw her over.  The problem, for Clarice, was that he was trying to do it through the system. 

                Paul might be a good FBI agent; he might well be honest and true.  That, Clarice thought, was the problem.  Rebecca DeGould played dirty; Paul played clean.  That put him at a disadvantage.  Clarice found herself terrified that DeGould had already fixed the fingerprints.  It was a damn database, that was all, and if you had the right password that was all you would need.  Visions of being kept here for twenty years were dancing in her head.  She could see herself in her late fifties, pleading with the parole board for her freedom.  Miss Tollman, do you still insist on this story that you're really Clarice Starling, an FBI agent?  I'm afraid your parole application is denied. 

                If she played fair, she would lose.  Paul would try, she knew.  But if she played fair, she'd be lost in the prison system.  DeGould would win. 

                She had to get out of here.  That much was pure and simple.  She needed out and she needed it now.  For that, Paul would not help.  She needed an expert. 

                I don't like cheating, she thought, but I don't see any other way. 

                Beck was off today, again. Thank God for small favors.  Sundays and Mondays were his days off.  She'd have to remember that.  The same guard went by for feeding and Clarice asked for another phone call.  Same deal, same trade.  After a quick kiss-and-grope session she had her phone call again.  It occurred to her that the first time she'd been so nervous about this.  Now it was a matter of course; the simple payment she had to make to get the damn phone. 

                Again Clarice stared at the phone.  Again she dialed.  This was a number she had stored long in her memory.  She'd toyed with it at times, but never actually worked up the courage to call it. 

                "International Herald-Tribune, may I help you?" 

                Clarice sighed.  Given everything that had happened, she never thought she would ever say these words.  Years ago she had thought of doing it.  She never had, though.  Then…well, then things had taken turns she did not expect.  And the latest twists and turns had put her in this position. 

                "Hi," she said.  "I need to place an ad in your agony column.  This is gonna be on a credit card." 

                "One moment, I'll connect you," the voice said.  Clarice heard hold music.  A few minutes later, another voice came on the line. 

                "Classified Ads, would you like to place an ad today?" 

                Gee, dumbass, why else would I be calling? Clarice thought sourly. 

                "Yes," Clarice said.  "In the agony column." 

                "OK, just one moment…let me get into the right screen.  How will your ad be worded, ma'am?" 

                Clarice took a deep breath.  She had to at least try.  Perhaps they would help. 

                "It starts like this," Clarice said.  "A. A. Aaron…,"

                …

                Rebecca DeGould headed through the corridors of Behavioral Science, feeling quite pleased with herself.  She'd just gotten off the phone with Lieutenant Beck.  Clarice was still locked up tight.  It was time to get her out of solitary and into general population.  A few weeks and a few fights later, Clarice would be shipped to Chowchilla.  Signed, sealed, and delivered. 

                As far as Behavioral Sciences went, it was hers.  Brittany had practiced Clarice's signature enough that the promotion form she'd signed went unnoticed.  She was now Deputy Chief of Behavioral Sciences, and Acting Section Chief while Clarice was 'on leave'.  The amusing thing, she thought, was that it was only temporary.  Rebecca DeGould had no interest in the FBI.  She made far more money working for her father.  She'd seized control of Behavioral Science so she'd be in a position to better keep track of things while she waited for Clarice to be sent to Chowchilla.  Once Clarice was entombed in her little box, she was going to speak with the people she knew out in California to ensure that Clarice spent five years in solitary.  After that, her brains would be mush and it wouldn't hurt DeGould a bit to let her out. 

                Her revenge against Gregory Lynch was complete.  Her revenge against Clarice Starling was well underway.  Beck would come up with a few inmates who were willing to have the snot beaten out of them in order to get parole, or a better institution.  Five or six would be all she needed.  A quick phone call to California would grease the skids for Clarice's transfer. 

                That did leave only one person remaining.  Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  Part of her was tempted to stick with the FBI just to see if she could bag the good doctor.  She'd found him once – something Starling hadn't done, she noted with some satisfaction.  She could do it again. 

                Then again, she was a realist where Clarice Starling was not concerned, and she knew the rank and file of Behavioral Sciences did not like her.  Most of them liked Starling.  She'd have to cleanse the department of Starling supporters if she stayed, and that would take a while.  All the same, there would be some satisfaction in leaving.  They would think Starling was dead.   Meanwhile, she had enough connections in Justice that she'd continue to get their reports on Lecter just as quickly as if she remained the Behavioral Sciences chief. 

                Still, DeGould thought, she could not lie back on her laurels.  She was pretty sure that her jailbirds would get by just fine in playing Starling and Mapp.  Once that was done, they needed to be settled where she could keep an eye on them.  But they had every incentive on earth to play along.  After all, if either of them got pangs of conscience, it was back to prison for them for a long, long time. 

                But being the Behavioral Sciences chief had its advantages.  One of them was that she was able to monitor the email of her underlings.  She'd gotten Starling's password reset, too.  It wasn't hard to set up her Outlook to get copies of her underlings' mail and pick up Starling's email.  She sat down at her desk.  She'd had Starling's stuff boxed up already.  She'd told them it was to move it into Conway's office.  Once she'd managed to finish the job on Starling, she was torn.  Should she send Clarice something to remind her of her old life, or simply throw it in the trash? 

                The trash sounded better, she thought.  She was throwing Starling in the trash.  It made sense to throw her stuff in the trash, too. 

                Rebecca DeGould sat down at her computer and opened her email.  She reviewed the emails her underlings had sent and received.  A few of them were asking amongst each other when Starling was going to be back from leave.  One of them in particular made a nasty comment about her.  DeGould wrote down that name for further retaliation.  She'd be nice; she'd simply kick them out of the department. 

                Starling's email had the usual corporate dreck.  Then there was something else of interest. 

                From: isabelle.pierce@police.nsw.gov.au

                To: cstarling@fbi.gov

                Subject: Information Request

Rebecca DeGould read the letter slowly.  A cold smile came over her face.  A killer patterning himself after Dr. Lecter?  Then why was the Aussie detective asking for information about Dr. Lecter's wife, too?  Riiiiiight.  The good doctor had set up shop in Australia, that was it.  Pierce was probably trying to hide it from Starling so she'd have all the glory for his capture to herself.  That made perfect sense to Rebecca; she'd done the same thing. 

                "Son of a bitch," Rebecca DeGould mused.  "This is working out even better than I thought." 

                …

                Peace had come to the Litton household.  Night had fallen.  Michael was finally asleep.  Husband and wife sat in the parlor.  Dr. Lecter read a copy of the International Herald-Tribune.  Erin was examining a few of her upcoming patient charts. 

                Since Dr. Lecter had burned his collection, an uneasy peace had held sway in the home.  She seemed comforted by the gesture, but seemed to feel some guilt.  That didn't surprise him. Her Irish Catholic roots were strong, and that meant that guilt was a part of her life.  Dr. Lecter privately found it amusing.  The one time she had mentioned it, she had reminded him that she hadn't asked him to burn the pictures he had. 

                For his part, he was not angry.  He supposed he would be jealous if she kept pictures of an old boyfriend around.  He still had the images of Clarice in his memory palace.  It simply wasn't the same, though.  He'd gotten a certain pleasure from being able to see them and touch them.  But hopefully this would still her disquietude. 

                Dr. Lecter opened the paper and flipped through it calmly.  As was his wont, he examined the agony column.  He'd done so for years. Every week, he'd hoped for an ad to appear at the top of the column.  It never had.  This time, he opened the paper.  His maroon eyes widened as he saw letters he had given up hope of ever seeing across the top of the page. 

A.A. Aaron –

A robin red-breast in a cage, puts all of Heaven in a rage.  I need to see you in Times Square shortly.  Thinking desperately of you and yours.  Hannah.

Dr. Lecter tilted his head and pondered.  A robin red-breast was obviously herself, a bird.  In a cage?  However had that happened?  There was nothing in the Tattler about Clarice's incarceration. 

Times Square.  Obviously, New York.  Dr. Lecter thought of the article he had seen in the Tattler a few days before.  Undercover federal agents in state prisons.  Clarice had been part of that.  Where would they have put her?  Not the easy, minimum security places.  Clarice was far stronger than that; they would not waste her steel on such a place.  No, Clarice had been undercover somewhere harsh, he had a feeling. 

The timing was exquisitely poor.  For the first time in a long time they had a policeman in pursuit of them.  Dr. Lecter didn't know how much longer he could hold the detective off.   She had the look of the kind who wouldn't give up, who would ferret something out.  

And what of his wife?  What would she say?  He wanted simpler things these days:  the pleasures of fatherhood, his wealth, and his marriage.  Peace and order.  Now it seemed he would be giving up the last two, at least for a bit.  Yet Erin would come around, he had no doubt of that.  She spent her days making people's lives better.  She'd saved Clarice's life a few years ago, as a matter of fact.  Surely she could not condone her rival being incarcerated. 

Dr. Lecter rose and returned to his den to examine the Tattler article.  There it was. There was no more picture of the false Clarice, but the text remained.  Agent Clarice Starling was inserted undercover into Bedford Hills Correctional Facility, New York's maximum-security prison for women.  Some of the most feared female monsters in the country are held there. 

Erin glanced up at him as he re-entered.  Calmly, he sat down next to her on the couch.  He cleared his throat. 

"Erin, may I discuss something with you?" 

She eyed him for a moment.  "Of course," she said.  "About what?" 

Dr. Lecter smiled tightly.  "About Clarice," he said. 

He could see her expression shift to a guarded look.  "All right," she said.  "Look,  I didn't make you burn your pictures." 

"It's not about that," Dr. Lecter said.  "I believe she needs help."