The Washington Monument thrust into the sky like an ivory stiletto. Around it, the reflecting pool offered a wavy reflection of the structure encased in dark water. There were a few people walking around the monument and night was falling, wrapping the area in a dark quilt. Tiny white flakes of snow fluttered from the sky and landed in Clarice's hair.
She was watchful, looking around for the person she was here to meet. Amanda Taylor hadn't given her a physical description. Probably she'd read about Clarice in the Tattler. Clarice hoped that Amanda would recognize her.
She saw a woman sitting on the wall surrounding the reflecting pool. Was that her? Clarice thought that it was. The poor girl. She'd made a call to Baltimore PD, trying to see what she could find out. Edgar Morgan III was not unknown to Baltimore PD. He'd been picked up for tons of little stuff. A DWI, underage drinking, and a few drug charges. A kid who liked to party, it seemed. Nothing had stuck, though; the DWI charge had been dismissed after the high-priced lawyers did their thing. The drug charges and underage drinking charges had been thrown out of court similarly. The people Clarice spoke to at Baltimore PD were quietly sour, opining that Eddie Morgan didn't learn his lesson.
Now, he would. Clarice didn't plan on doing much more than serving as a conduit for the Baltimore authorities. But for now, she suspected, Amanda Taylor just needed a sympathetic ear. That was something Clarice could do. She'd always ached for the victims.
Clarice walked up calmly to the figure. She smiled calmly and put the hood of her coat back.
"Are you Amanda Taylor?" Clarice asked.
The figure nodded. Up close, she was an attractive girl. Very pale skin. Her hair was very dark black, blending into the black leather jacket that she wore. It was hard to make out her eye color in the dark. Darker eyes, Clarice thought. Brown or black. Her lips seemed to be of greater color against her pale skin. She wore an expensive leather coat, black mittens, jeans, and chic little ankle boots. Clarice found herself a bit disquieted all the same.
"Thank you for coming," she said. "I…I read about you in the paper. You got that serial killer a while ago. Beefy Bill, or something like that."
"Buffalo Bill," Clarice said absently, and shivered. A sharp wind came stabbing in from the Atlantic and stabbed through her coat.
"It's cold," the girl observed. "If you want, we can talk in my car. It's right over there." She adopted a pained expression.
Clarice was about to say no, but then thought better of it. It might help Amanda to talk on her own turf. She rose and walked alongside the young woman. Their boots crunched against the snow. White, newfallen snow, matted down icy and crunchy on the plaza, gave way to dirty, gray snow on the sidewalk.
The van the girl walked towards struck Clarice as a surprising choice of vehicle. From the way she was dressed, Clarice would've expected something little and sporty. She looked like she had some money, at any rate. The black cargo van didn't go with the driver. Hmmm.
But the girl unlocked the van and opened the door. She hopped in the driver's seat and sat down, blowing into her mittens to try and warm her hands. Then she took a deep breath and spoke. Her breath plumed in the cold van. Clarice's seat was cold. Almost on reflex, she lowered the sunshade and peeked in the vanity mirror. Behind her, the van was astringently neat and bare. There were the two seats they were sitting in. Behind them was a long wooden box of some type, and a gym bag. The van was carpeted neatly with
"Edgar Morgan is…a monster," she began slowly. "He's always gotten away with anything he ever did. His parents buy him out of trouble."
Clarice nodded. That story was all too common.
"He…we were at a party, and he invited me back to his place…I know, it was dumb," the girl continued, and her face worked. "He's not always scary…he can be very charming."
"I know the type," Clarice said in a whisper.
"He gave me a drink. I didn't watch him make it. I just thought…you know, that it was a drink. All I remember is drinking it and then feeling really dizzy, and then…then..," she let out a shuddering sob. "Then I woke up naked in his bed."
Clarice let out her breath. "It wasn't your fault," she said comfortingly. "You didn't know."
"He said…he said it was," the girl cried. "He said…he said if I told anyone he would kill me. He said he'd killed someone before."
That made Clarice sit up. It might be simply big talk, but then again, it might not be.
"I know this is hard for you," Clarice said. "And you're very brave to tell me this. I…I want to ask you, though. Did he say who he'd killed?"
Amanda shook her head. She sniffled.
"I want to get my cigarettes," she said, and bounded into the back. Clarice could hear her crying back there and felt bad. A zipper rasped. The girl let out a shuddering sigh.
Then suddenly, there were two powerful arms around her, pinning her back in her seat. Clarice gasped. A clean, white rag was clamped over her nose and mouth. She could smell the sickly sweet smell of chloroform and tried to twist her face away. But the arms holding her were inhumanly strong. Clarice tried to scream and got a faceful of white cotton for her trouble. She gasped in air and her vision blurred.
The girl's right hand was clamped firmly around her, pulling her into the seat. Clarice could catch just a glimpse of her face in the mirror. A passing car's headlights showed it. The girl's eyes reflected the light redly. When she realized it, she gasped in horror. Now she could see it. Dark hair, resembling a pelt. Pale skin. Maroon eyes. And the hand grabbing her right hand and keeping her safely away from her gun had six fingers. For a moment, Clarice pinwheeled between the past and the present. She envisioned the figure in his cell, mocking and probing. Dr. Hannibal Lecter. But this couldn't be. Dr. Lecter had no progeny, so said the prevailing wisdom. The prevailing wisdom was obviously in error. She'd been played for a fool.
Six fingers. It's the Six Fingered Killer, she's his daughter or something, Jesus Fucking Christ, Clarice thought. But her gasp of horror had also sealed her fate. She could feel her traitorous body begin to slacken. Then her eyes began to roll up in her head and the dark van went entirely black.
Alice Pierpont rose from behind the passenger seat and pulled Clarice's limp form from the passenger seat. Carefully she relieved the FBI agent of her gun, handcuffs, and cell phone. The gun went in Alice's bag. She pulled the battery off the cell phone. The cell phone went in one inside jacket pocket and the battery in the other. The handcuffs went on Clarice's wrists. She put them in front of her. It wasn't as secure, but it was necessary.
The long wooden box was six feet long, three feet wide, and two feet tall. Clarice fit inside just fine. It was a bit on the tight side, Alice allowed, but she didn't plan on quartering Clarice in there for terribly long. There were straps on the bottom of the box, and Alice used these to strap Clarice down. She turned Clarice's face so that if she woke up and puked, she wouldn't choke on it.
The lid to the box fitted snugly when Alice closed it. She slipped a padlock through the hasp and locked the box shot. Clarice was going to stay in there for the time being. Her prisoner was secured and now she could get out of here.
Alice slipped behind the wheel of the van and circled the monument, looking for Clarice's battered Roush Mustang. She found it in a parking garage not far away. That was just fine as far as Alice was concerned. Had it been on the street, it would have been found more easily. Eventually, they would find it – she had little doubt of that – but it could stay where it was for now. Moving it was not worth the risk of leaving behind some sort of evidence.
She popped the battery back on the cell phone for a moment and stared at it curiously. Scrolling through the numbers found her what she was looking for. JOSH CELL, JOSH HOME, and JOSH WORK were right in the middle. Alice turned around and glanced reproachfully at the box.
"Clarice Starling, honestly," she told the box. "Cradle robbing, are we?"
She started the van and drove away, the van slipping easily into the night. It picked up the Baltimore-Washington expressway and merged into traffic. After several minutes, a groan came from the back of the van.
"You and I are going to have some fun, Clarice," Alice said gleefully.
…
Josh Graham sat in his apartment. Someone looking in on him might have been quite concerned. He had the crime scene files around him. Every sheet, every photograph, every record in those files were arranged around him in a semicircle. It looked as if he was determined to be some type of bureaucratic god and the forms and photographs his worshippers.
He had seen his father do this when he'd been a small boy. The damn thing was, it worked. It suited his ability to picture things visually. The system looked chaotic, but it wasn't. There was an underlying order to it. To Josh, it was a strange but effective way of saying Om and opening the doors to inner contemplation and reflection. From then, he could step into the mind of his prey.
He started off with an easy but controversial one.
Clarice thinks the killer is female. That's not the norm. But it's possible. Let's see….
Something in his head directed him towards Sandra Thurmond's employment record. Josh would have had difficulty saying exactly what, but there was something on the paper that he should read. In earlier days, they might have called this a demon or a spirit. Josh didn't believe in any of that – what pointed him towards that particular sheet, in his view was his subconscious mind reminding him of something it had seen. There were no demons in the world. He grabbed it and scanned it. Something here…what was it?
Current posting: Custodial Officer, Girls Wing, 1985-present
Damn, Josh thought. Thurmond hasn't dealt with male inmates there for almost twenty years. Just the girls. If there is a connection, it's likely that the Six Fingered Killer is a girl. Maybe the Six Fingered Killer is the boyfriend of a girl who was there, but wait…there's more.
He stood and turned, lording it over his kowtowing subjects of paper, and reached down to bestow divine favor on another sheet. Jeannette Baker. Specifically, the interview with the owner of the club she danced in.
Subject's employer stated he saw her leave the bar at approximately2:30 PM. No other customers were present. The bouncer saw her out to the parking lot. The bouncer states he saw her head out to her car. No other person was present in the parking lot that he could see other than other dancers leaving the club.
Okay. No customers. The bouncer would have noticed someone, because that was his job. There were probably some creepy customers who might lurk outside in the parking lot. If the bouncer wasn't a total retard, he had already at least looked. It was possible that he had gotten surprised. Still…more fuel for Clarice's suggestion that the Six Fingered Killer was a woman. Another dancer would have slipped out unnoticed. The bouncer wouldn't have considered her dangerous. And then she'd coshed Jeannette Baker over the head and driven her off to her death.
It wasn't proof enough for a court of law, but that wasn't Josh's department. He dealt in profiles and probabilities and induction. Based on what he saw, the evidence pointed to the Six Fingered Killer being a woman. That was odd, but well within the range of possibility.
Okay. Do another one.
If she'd worked at a strip club, that meant she…hmm…she had a good body. He grinned to himself. No, seriously. If she worked at a strip club, she was probably between, say , twenty and thirty. She'd be attractive enough to get a job at a club. Josh didn't think the ID she'd shown to get the job would be worth squats – she knew what she was there to do. But they could get a physical description of any new dancers that had gotten a job there.
Josh didn't think she'd worked there that long. A month, max. He had to stop himself for a moment. Was he sure she'd gotten a job there? Maybe she'd just dressed like a dancer or something. Well…it was possible. But he had the feeling she had actually been there.
His brainstorm was continuing when his cell phone rang. He picked it up and glanced at the display. The caller ID read CLARICE M STARLING. He hit TALK and put the phone to his ear.
"Starling?" he asked. He felt better calling her that. 'Agent Starling' was also fine, but she called him 'Graham' rather than 'Agent Graham'. He didn't feel right calling her 'Clarice'. The one time he'd called her 'Ms. Starling' he'd gotten a look that made his collar turn starchy.
There was no reply at first. An acoustic guitar began bouncing a merry melody into the speaker. Then two male voices began to sing.
And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey
We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files
We'd like to help you learn to help yourself
Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes
Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home
"Starling? What the hell?" Josh asked. Had Starling been hitting the booze or something?
A female voice came on the line. It didn't sound like Clarice. Josh Graham found himself feeling suddenly nervous.
"Ooooh, Josh," the voice cooed.
Josh swallowed. "Who is this?" he demanded.
"Who am I? That's not important. I do want to ask about your taste in women, though."
"What?"
A giggle came up the line. "Honestly, Josh. She's rather old for you. Is it the experience you look for? I've got that, dear. Or are you looking for a mommy?"
"I want to talk to Starling," Josh said. "And I want your name. We're tracking this call."
"No, you're not, and no, I won't give you my name. As for Starling? She can't come to the phone right now. It's time for her Geritol and Metamucil nightcap." Another chuckle. The voice went up an octave or so and spoke with mock emotion.
"Ooooh, Joshie," the voice cried with faux emotions. "I know it's just a phase. I know you don't love her. I love you, Joshie, I really do. Some day, I know, you'll come back to me." A few fake sobs were thrown in for effect.
Josh gripped the phone and wondered what the hell to do. Was this…did the killer have Clarice?
"I'll fix it, Josh," the voice continued. "I promise. I'll just chop off a few of her fingers and maybe cut out her tongue and poke her eye out with a chopstick. Then you won't look at her anymore." A colder laugh echoed in his ear. "Yes, Josh, we girls can be that bitchy fighting over a guy. Just wanted to check in. I'll let you know what she has to say once I've done a bit of cutting."
"Hey!" Josh said, not sure what to do. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. "If you hurt Agent Starling, I'll…,"
"You'll love me and only me, Joshie," the voice said coquettishly again. "It's…it's meant to be. I just know it is. Goodbye, my darling. Goodbye."
There was a brief click of static. Then there was nothing more.