Clarice Starling had hoped that she could introduce her trainee quietly to Behavioral Sciences. Things had been on the quiet side. A few killers being tracked, nothing too big. Nothing like Buffalo Bill or the Red Dragon. But fate had been unkind. Baltimore PD had called up asking for help, and boy, this one was a doozy.
Her own breath hung misty in the air as she exhaled. She clutched her coat around her as she examined the factory. The red lights of police cars parked outside reflected crazily off the windows. On top of a table was the body of Jeannette Baker. The cold had preserved her corpse to some extent, but it was still pretty nasty. Her once-pretty features had turned black. Mice and rats had come closer to gnaw on her a little. For a moment, Clarice felt very sorry for her. The indignity of death, here in this ugly factory.
Clarice pushed it away and examined the corpse dispassionately. Cause of death appears to be two knife wounds, simultaneously plunged into the breasts and pushed through the ribs. Probably the heart was pierced. Death wasn't quite instantaneous but would've been quick. The body's been here for a while. Notable aroma of decomposition.
Next to her, Josh Graham observed the corpse solemnly.
"Look at her, Graham," she said. "Tell me what you see."
He paused, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "I think the UNSUB is pretty strong," he said. "The scene down the street has the woman pierced through with a sword. Probably male, most serial killers are. This killer's not too into mutilation, I don't think. No visible mutilation on this one." His eyes flicked up for a moment as he thought.
"Definitely an organized scene," he said. "The killer brought both victims here. I'd say the perp lives in Baltimore. Either lives around this area or works here, or has in the past. He knew these factories were abandoned. Must've been in here before. He knew what was in here. Some of the stuff used in the factory was already here – the post at the other scene, the table that she's on. But the killer brought the weapons actually used in both killings. "
Clarice nodded. Not bad at all for a first start. He seemed to be taking the horror rather well.
"Not bad," she said.
"I think the killer may be older," he continued. "These killings show a lot of self-control. I'm thinking older, but maybe it could just be someone pretty self-possessed. Cool, calm, confident. Neither of these are first killings."
Clarice was impressed. Not bad for a kid fresh out of the Academy, not at all.
"Can we check out the other scene?" Josh asked suddenly.
"Sure," Clarice returned.
It was definitely weird to have two crime scenes literally within walking distance of each other. The factory in which Jeannette Baker had died was just down the street from the one in which Hale and his paralegal had died. The two tramped along in the dirty snow coating the sidewalk, their breath pluming in the air.
"So what made you think about Behavioral Sciences?" Clarice asked.
Josh shrugged. "I don't know," he said distantly. "My dad, I guess. Even though I know I'll always be 'Will Graham's kid' around here."
Clarice chuckled and thought of her own father. "Nah," she said. "You do know, your dad was a legend around here in his time. But you'll sink or swim on your own merits, I promise you that. Just work the cases and you'll do fine."
A tall, rangy man in a cheap overcoat walked up to them and fell into stride as if they were great buddies.
"Hi," he said. "I'm Jimmy Winfield. I did the article on you guys last week."
Clarice sighed. Like most FBI agents, she had a love-hate relationship with the press. But Winfield's article had actually been pretty decent. They wanted to play up the aspects of Josh Graham coming into his father's department. Winfield had promised her she'd be portrayed positively and he'd kept that promise. She didn't want the Tattler to start calling her the Death Angel again.
"Hi, Mr. Winfield," Clarice said crisply.
"So what can you tell me about what's going on?" he asked.
"Not much, I'm afraid," she said. "This has been declared a crime scene. There seem to have been two murders. For anything more, you'd have to talk to Lieutenant Friello of the Baltimore Police Department. He's the point man on the scene."
"Is it the work of a serial killer? C'mon, Starling, I've been good to you. You can be good to me back."
"Mr. Winfield," she said, "I don't really have anything for you right now. Behavioral Sciences has been called out here to investigate at the request of the Baltimore police department. That's really all I can tell you at this point."
He was polite, but persistent. "Is it Hannibal Lecter?" he asked immediately.
Clarice sighed. "I don't think so, no. It doesn't look like his style."
"Anything else you can tell me about it?"
Clarice shook her head. "At this point, we're still working."
"Look," he said, "listen, I know the Tattler has kicked you around in the past, Agent Starling. I can promise you nothing like that will happen again. But you gotta help me out here."
Clarice sighed and put her gloved palms in the air.
"Mr. Winfield," she said, "I know you wrote a nice article about us, and I do appreciate that. But I have a job to do, and I can't feed you details right now. Once we've had a chance to do our job, I will be more than happy to offer you an exclusive interview with as much information as I am allowed to give out. That's really the best I can offer you right now. OK?"
Winfield thought about it for a moment.
"Okay," he said. "Lemme give you my card. I'm staying over at the Hilton." He took a moment to scribble a number on the back of his card with a gold Cross pen and then handed it to her.
"Thank you," Clarice said, and urged her trainee on.
Ahead was the second scene. More cruisers pulled up around the door. Yellow crime-scene tape blocked their path. A cop in a fur hat enforced the tape's mandate. Clarice and Josh displayed their FBI credentials and were admitted. They had to stomp quite animatedly to get all the snow off their shoes before they entered the crime-scene proper.
"You better move," the cop said, "they're about to cut the bodies down."
They moved and gained a few minutes in which to examine the scene before the bodies were cut down. Josh stared at the impaled woman and the hanged man. He crossed around back to examine the post. The tip of the sword protruded from the back end of the post.
"Man, what a sicko," the cop said.
"Strong sicko," Josh mused. "Look at this. This post is round and almost a foot through. Killer had to eat his Wheaties in order to do that."
Clarice nodded, thinking this kid was going to do just fine.
"How tall do you think the killer is?" she asked, testing him.
Josh looked blank.
"Probably the same height as the victims," he began.
Clarice shrugged. He was close, and this might be her opinion.
"I think the killer's shorter, actually," she said. "Know why?"
He shrugged. That was OK, Clarice thought. That's what training was for.
"The stab wound?" he asked.
"That's part of it," Clarice allowed. "It looks pretty straight on, but it's angled juuuuust a little bit up. See?" She indicated the angle of attack. A few other cops nodded. Clarice continued. "Also, look at the hanged guy here…do we have a name for this guy?"
"Hale," a Baltimore cop supplied. "Thomas Nathan Hale. The personal-injury lawyer who advertises on TV."
Clarice nodded. "OK. Look at Hale. His feet are just a couple of inches shy of the floor. Just by a couple of inches. Hale isn't too tall himself, maybe five-seven or five-eight. I think the killer was shorter than him and put him on the box just enough to hang. I think our UNSUB did it that way because if Hale was too high, he'd be out of reach. I'd say under five-seven."
"Is this the same killer?" one of the Baltimore cops asked.
Clarice pondered for a moment. "I'd say yes," she said. "This killing is rather posed; the other one isn't. But there's a great deal in common: abandoned factories as murder sites. The victim is brought to the factory alive and murdered here. In both cases the murderer pre-selected the victim. With Hale, the UNSUB could've seen his TV commercials. As far as Baker…hard to say. Strippers are high-risk victims. I know you guys know your stuff, you're already checking into her background." The Baltimore cop smiled approvingly. "If you come up with anything interesting, can you have the point man on the investigation keep myself and Agent Graham in the loop?" She offered him her business card.
Josh went along with her out to the car. He seemed to be lost in thought.
"C'mon," Clarice said. "Let's get some breakfast. I know of a decent place to eat." For a moment she pondered on that. She'd just seen three corpses and here she was hungry. Boy, am I turning jaded, she thought.
Josh nodded, his eyes filmed over with thought.
"Whatcha thinking?" she asked.
Josh sighed. "There's something about the murders. The double murder occurred later. There's something about it."
"What's that?"
"The posing. Could be indicative of mental illness, but everything else is against that. I don't think this killer's crazy. Not in any way we think of someone being crazy, at any rate. And that's what bugs me."
Clarice took a breath. She'd been thinking the same thing herself. "So what were you thinking it was?" she asked guardedly.
Josh let out a nervous sigh.
"Whimsy," he said.
…
BLOODY FIEND COMMITS BALTIMORE MASSACRE! The Tattler was as hysterical as it had ever been. Alice found it amusing. She was somewhat disappointed that there were no pictures of her work in the trashy tabloid. Perhaps the cops hadn't let them get any. Next time she'd have to take a few pictures herself and send them quietly to the Tattler.
Hmmm. She could have some fun here, though. She examined the article carefully. It gleefully told about the murders she'd already committed. She'd have to get a little closer to Starling. Starling was her current goal, after all. She also had the article about Josh Graham arriving at Behavioral Sciences. She bent over that one and examined it closely.
"Well," she said. "Don't you look cute."
He was cute, in an intellectual and self-effacing sort of way. In the picture he looked sort of embarrassed. A shy boy, she thought. He might be fun to play with. Will Graham's son. She knew who Will Graham was, but had never met him. The idea of finding old Will occurred to her. Nah, she could save that for later.
Well, she could get Starling's attention and the boy-toy's attention at the same time. How to do that? She glanced down at the byline on the article. The same person had written both articles: James Winfield. Wow, she thought, what a preppy name for someone working at a trash tabloid like that.
Alice Pierpont did not need to work. Part of her deal with her mother had accomplished that. There was little love lost between the women, but Jane Pierpont knew that money bought her what she wanted. She'd offered her daughter a deal: enough money to live independently in return for leaving her home and never darkening her door again. That had been just fine with Alice. She now had sufficient trust funds to live the rest of her life without needing to work for a living. This gave her ample free time to plan her hobbies.
This ought to get their attention. She knew just how to do it, too. Alice sat down and got to work.
Chicago Information had a number for the Tattler's main office. Alice called that and got the receptionist. It was a young woman like herself. Her voice was brisk and businesslike.
"National Tattler, this is Kelly, how may I direct your call?"
"James Winfield, please," Alice said in just a businesslike tone.
"He's not in, would you like his voice mail?"
Alice sighed. "Actually, do you have contact information for him?" Her voice turned to one of clinical concern. "This is Jane from Dr. Thurmont's office. We just got some test results back for him, and we need to talk to him as soon as possible."
She could hear the receptionist thinking. C'mon, she thought, cough up.
"This is a medical thing," she added.
"I'm not supposed to," the receptionist said dubiously.
"I know," Alice coaxed. "But it's very important for his health that we speak to him."
Another few minutes of silence. Then the receptionist caved.
"Okay," she said. "He's at the Baltimore Hilton. Do you want the number?"
"Please," Alice said, and grabbed a pen to scribble it down. The next phone call she made was to the Baltimore Hilton. The front desk answered and she asked for James Winfield's room.
"One moment, ma'am, I'll connect you."
There was a moment or two of hold time, and then she heard the phone ring twice. It was picked up just before the third ring.
"Hello," James Winfield's voice boomed in her ear.
"Hi," she said cautiously. "Is this James Winfield?"
"Yes, that's me. Who am I speaking with?"
Alice glanced around and tried to envision what she meant to appear as: a mousy little office drone who wanted to supplement her salary.
"Umm…my name doesn't matter," she said. "I work for the FBI. I have information you might be interested in. About the murders in Baltimore."
Winfield stopped. It was so easy sometimes. She'd be able to get to him very easily indeed.
"I'm listening," he said.
"I can get you copies of the crime scene file," she said. "Reports, pictures, everything."
"What do you want?" He got right down to business. She liked that.
"Five hundred in cash," she said. "No questions asked. I want to meet you tonight at your hotel."
Winfield pondered for a moment. "I'll need to see it first," he said.
"You can see it," she promised. "You'll like it. I promise."
"Tonight at the hotel?" Winfield said. She could hear the greed in his voice. Time to reel him in.
"Yes," she said. "The hotel bar, eight PM. Sit at the bar and have your tie flipped over your shoulder."
"How will I know you?" he asked.
"I'll find you," she said.
"Fair enough," Winfield said. "I'll see you at eight, then."
"Yup," she said, grinning. "Remember, no questions asked."
It was six. Just enough time to get dressed and packed and out there. She knew exactly what she meant to do.
Now it was time to go on the prowl.