Title:  Back in Baltimore – Chapter 2

Author: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)

Genre: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

Category: Drama

Rating: PG-13

Feedback: stardustsavant@hotmail.com

Archive?: Sure.

Summary: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.

Author's Notes: Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04.

BACK IN BALTIMORE – CHAPTER TWO

The flight of steps leading up to the front entrance of the building has a mocking appearance, as if predicting her failure. She has never been to this part of Baltimore, and never intended to pay a visit.

"Starling?"

Kay Howard is a petite woman, with brilliantly auburn hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, and a dusting of light, barely visible freckles. She approaches Clarice unhurriedly, hands jammed in the pocket of her suit-coat, head tilted at a friendly angle.

It has often been said of the sergeant, that she is not particularly amiable with other women. The reality, however, is that she has not yet found someone whom she considers a decent enough companion, worthy of opening up to. To Howard's quick, trained eyes, Clarice has that strong stance of one who has escaped defeat on more than one occasion. It brings a smile to the redhead's face.

Starling turns, and confusion registers on her face. She has yet to meet anyone from the unit she will be working with on this particular assignment. "Yes..?"

"Sergeant Kay Howard, Baltimore Homicide." She drags one hand out of the pocket and offers it to Clarice, who clasps it firmly. A strong handshake, indicative of strong character. "Recognized you from the photos the FBI sent over."

"Pleasure," Starling murmurs, releasing the hand and allowing her companion to turn and jog up the steps towards the glass-paneled front doors. She is beckoned forward, and follows obediently. Under normal circumstances, she is hardly the submissive type and would insist on taking the lead, but this is unfamiliar ground, and likely to shift.

Howard briefs her quickly on their walk up to the unit, the usual things. Four deceased have been found so far, though the detectives believe that the deaths will continue.

"Men or women?" Starling rounds the corner and pulls open the door, holding it for Kay.

"Three men and a woman."

"Never any signs of sexual assault, of course."

"Right. How'd you know?"

It is not a rhetorical question. The younger federal agent looks up from the linoleum floor to answer, but the sergeant has moved ahead, and appears to be busy greeting a crowd of other detectives, clustered around a coffee machine. A frown tugs insistently at Starling's mouth, and she gives into it, briskly walking over.

"Sergeant, with all due respect…" She cringes inwardly at her wording choice, the same as Krendler had used. "…when you ask me a question like that, it's goddamn wrong to walk away from my answer. This is an investigation, not a high school dance. We're here to work, not to socialize, and the last thing citizens need are slacking law enforcement officers when there's a killer on the loose."

There is a stunned, hollow silence from the group. Kay Howard turns from the table and the coffee maker, to face her accuser. An unreadable expression flickers, quickly, through her eyes. Perhaps a combination of annoyance and respect. She holds her glare for a moment, and then allows an easy smile to filter across her lips. "Well, alright, Starling, what d'ya have, huh?"

"Dr. Lecter, if it's indeed him that you're looking for, will never sexually assault his victims."

"And why not?"

"Guess he considers himself above that. In all the years he's been observed, he's never pulled anything like that. I have a feeling he'd consider that unforgivably rude."

"So he's never impolite, is that it?" The half-mocking inquiry comes from a blond man, wearing a cocky expression and leaning against the nearest desk.

"Well, no sir, he doesn't like the rude much, unless they're appetizers." Starling notes, with extreme satisfaction, the nauseated expression he wears once the comment settles in. She returns her attention to Howard, who has been the most knowledgeable person she's encountered thus far. "What makes you think this is Lecter's doing?"

"Well…" The sentence is interrupted momentarily for Howard to heave a sigh, and then she moves off again, careful to grab Clarice by the wrist to avoid further reprimand. "…the most recent victim was discovered in the back alley that connects to the Italian grocery across the street, just there." She jerks a thumb in the vague direction of the window.

"So?" Starling arches a questioning brow. Surely, Sergeant Howard cannot be suggesting that Dr. Lecter has become a suspect simply because of the body's close proximity to an Italian business? Sure, it was believed that he'd spent some time hiding out in Italy, but that was hardly a lead…

"So, where the kidneys should have been, the killer placed a single red rose. Kellerman—that's the guy at the desk, the one that questioned you—went down to talk to the boys on flower duty for the past week, they do a rotation, see, and one of 'em said that we could look at the videotapes."

"They keep a camera."

"Right. They've had some troubles with shoplifting in the past, neighborhood kids, nothing big…" Howard catches a glimpse of Clarice's exasperated expression, and is amused, displaying a sly grin. "…bet you're wishing I'd just get on with it, huh."

Starling aborts an utterly childish giggle, surprised at her own show of amusement, and nods.

"Right," the sergeant repeats. "We got hold of the tapes, and set it up, and most of it's just regular clientele, but there was this one man who bore a resemblance to the pictures of Lecter taken while he was incarcerated."

"But mightn't he have changed his face, or something? Collagen implanting, maybe. I find it hard to believe he'd just be roaming around without any sort of disguise…"

"Good thought, there." The voice is unfamiliar. Starling turns in surprise, but Howard seems unaffected, not even looking over her shoulder.

"Agent Starling, Detective Munch. Munch, this is Starling." The slender redhead makes the introductions, and Clarice offers the man a half-smile. He is tall and rather thin, the latter only heightened by the contrast between his dark trenchcoat and light-colored collared shirt. His countenance is deeply lined, and he has a nose of character, with dark, alert eyes which currently display amusement.

"Hey," Munch remarks, eyes cutting quickly to Kay. "Saw the way she snapped at you earlier, Sarge. Smart girl—" this, with an approving nod to Starling. "—she'd be an asset to Homicide."

"Sure would, if she didn't have her fancy federal badge, John," remarks Kellerman from the desk, looking up from his stack of case files. Munch shoots him a withering glare, and the blond falls silent.

"Excuse him," murmurs Howard, "he's probably still sulking from your appetizer retort."

"Yeah," Munch chimes in. "Thinks he's God's own gift to women, you know, and he thought you'd be more receptive…"

Starling is beyond entertained. "Got one just like him back at Quantico."

Howard grins, and even John Munch is caught with a smile. There is a moment of silence, though far from awkward, and then the conversation turns back to the investigation at hand. It is a natural transition.

"We think he would have found collagen implants difficult for the region around and including the ears," explains Munch, "and that's the part that really resembles the photos we've got."

"Alright," Starling agrees. "Do I get to see this similarity, or am I going to be left completely in the dark here?"

"Come on," invites Howard, and she leads Starling, with Munch in tow, away from the main cluster of desks to the relatively small room labeled as the chief's office.

"Gee's not here," explains Munch, "and we're not staying, but Sarge's just gotta get the pictures."

"Gee?" This from Starling.

"Yeah. Al Giardello, really, but way back when, when he was a rookie, he saw his first crime scene and all he could think of to say, was 'Gee'," Howard explains, from her position bent over the desk, rifling through reams of paper. "Aha." She returns to the doorway, triumphant, with a manila folder clutched between her fingers. "Desk, ho."

Tim Bayliss's desk is their destination, or so Starling gathers from the nameplate on the edge. It is relatively tidy, with ample spreading space, and the redhead splays the pictures out onto the wooden surface.

"Now," she explains, "these're the ones we took from his last stay in prison—" pointing to the pair of photographs on the left side, "—and these're the ones we capped from the videos."

Starling leans over them, studying the similarities and differences with a scrutiny not solely driven by a desire to see the doctor behind bars. Something unfamiliar rises from her chest up into her throat, something hot and wet and frightening because she cannot place it as anything she has felt before. She bites back a cough.

"Shit."

"What?" Munch peers over to her, with an expression of concern. "You alright?" When Clarice doesn't answer, he hastens to speak again. "That's him, isn't it?"

Clarice Starling cannot speak. She cannot breathe, or swallow, or blink. All she can do is nod slowly, her mouth cotton-dry.