Disclaimer: Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling, and FBI Director Tunberry, are copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story plus original characters belong to me.
Author's Note: This was an idea I came up with, and if I can pull it off, with some luck, it could take a while. Follows from the film's canon, with elements from the novel. Contains gory scenes.
Year of Hell
by Josiah Tulkinhorn
Chapter One: 1st January
London. A few seconds past midnight.
Dr Hannibal Lecter slid through the crowds gathered along the Thames, and winced slightly as the people around him roared at the coming of the New Year. Another year gone, and fireworks exploded in bursts of colour and sound.
He knew that the year to come would present it's fair share of difficulties - but more so than any year before. It was a test, one he had set. The victim? A lamb to the slaughter.
Conflicting emotions surged in his brain. There was love in there, along with a love of fear. As he kept moving, he breathed in the atmosphere of excitement, almost as enjoyable, but not quite. Not quite.
He looked at his watch. The police would discover the body within a few hours…he had to leave the country as soon as possible.
Getting out of the crowds, and sticking to the shadows he headed to Heathrow Airport, calling a Taxi at Trafalgar Square.
He had warned Clarice. He had to come out of his 'hibernation'. But that had been years ago, and he had been active for some time. Where to go?
On the off-chance the police tracked him, he didn't want to be found near his home.
So a few days in Russia might do the trick.
--
Sitting in the plane, he drunk deeply from the complimentary (awful) excuse for wine, and gazed out of the window at the dark skies.
"Some of our stars are the same," he whispered, "so Happy New Year, Clarice."
The old man sitting next to Hannibal looked at him oddly, then turned around and started to snore.
Hannibal wondered when Clarice would receive the card he sent her.
As he settled down in his seat, the plane continued towards it's destination.
--
London. Seven a.m.
Blue lights flashed madly, and sirens screamed as police cars sped to a district in Islington. A few neighbours had complained about a strange, metallic smell coming from an empty apartment on the top floor. Armed officers burst through the door, firearms outstretched, bullets chambered.
The lead officer, Sergeant Matt Payne, gave the nod, and kicked the door down. Splinters flew as the police spilled into the first room. They immediately divided into three teams, to cover the three doors.
"Clear!" came one yell, to inform the others about the bathroom.
"Clear!" the bedroom was safe as well.
"Man down! Repeat, man down! No hostiles." The officer first in fell out briefly, sucking in the stale air from the other room. Although the metallic smell was still evident, it wasn't as pungent.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," he muttered, then turning to Sergeant Payne, "it's bad sir. We need forensics."
Payne frowned, and gave the man a look as if to say, 'no need to state the obvious.' He went into the room, and looked around. Catching site of the body he closed his eyes, his brain not quite recognising what was on the floor below him. He took a deep breath, which naturally only made it worse, bile suddenly rising in his throat. He swallowed it down and opened his eyes.
The corpse, male, lay with his throat slashed open, a large pool of blood accumulating around his head. However, the worst wound was on the chest - there seemed to be some sort of hole, and looking into it, the lead officer could see the heart had been removed. Due to the extreme lack of blood, the wound was post-mortem. A blood-stained knife was lying next to the body.
"This is not good," muttered Payne, "oh this is so not good."
--
Moscow, midday (Greenwich Mean Time).
Kate Warner, an American tourist, flicked her shoulder-length brown hair, brushing out the snow, and shivered in her thick woollen coat. Russia was so beautiful in the snow, but it was so cold!
"Excuse me, but are you okay?" the voice came from behind her. She turned, and saw a man, small, but with a strange presence, and startling maroon eyes.
"Yes," said Kate, smiling. The man responded in kind. Kate continued: "I'm okay. Just cold. But its worth it…it's so lovely here."
"Yes," said the man, "yes it is lovely. It has been so long. And yet it's just a plane-ride away."
"Your accent?" asked Kate, "What is it? English?"
"No," said the man, "I'm from Europe, originally, but I have travelled a lot. I seem to do an awful lot of travelling," Kate smiled, "however, I haven't introduced myself. Henry Lowell."
"Kate Warner," she took his outstretched hand, "a pleasure to meet you. Look…I'm sorry to sound presumptuous; have you eaten?" The man shook his head, "Well, I was just about to grab a bite. Would you care to join me?"
"Yes," said the man, "why not?"
--
London, the crime scene. Two p.m.
"Sir?"
Sergeant Payne turned to the forensic scientist, "Yes, what?"
"We've identified the remains in the kettle. Heart, we're presuming human, but we're still waiting for the DNA results. But…there's only part of the heart, about three quarters are missing."
"He wants us to know. What he might have done."
"Sir?"
"Just thinking out loud," said Payne, "what else?"
"We've got a thumbprint, on the knife, a complete one. The rest of the room is clean."
"Have you sent it to HQ?"
"Yes…sir. This sort of murder. I've been in the force three years, and seen all sorts of weird stuff. Really weird. Never as bad as this. Do you think…well what if the killer has fled?"
"You think we should put out an alert?"
"Yeah. We can't touch airports…no witnesses, no description. Send it to Interpol. We'll see what they can turn up."
--
Interpol, regional headquarters, London. Seven p.m.
Interpol's DNA database was the largest in the world, the cumulative effect of all other police force's databases. The analyst sighed, and pushed his chair back from his desk, raised his glassed and rubbed his eyes. He was tired, staring at a computer screen for the last three hours. The computer was going into overtime, flitting from face to face, hundreds every minute.
The analyst looked up suddenly, as bleeping reached his ears.
"Oh. Hell," he muttered.
ONE MATCH FOUND
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION; UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TEN MOST WANTED
DR. HANNIBAL LECTER
The Analyst picked up the phone, fumbled and dropped it. Swearing, he picked it up, and dialled the internal number for his supervisor.
"Yeah?"
"Sir?" said the Analyst, "We have a problem. That murder in London? Thumbprint's a match. Doctor Hannibal Lecter.
--
Office of the Director of the FBI; Washington D.C. Ten minutes later. (Five p.m. Washington Local Time)
FBI Director Tunberry quickly sipped his scolding coffee, relishing it's bitter taste, reviewing budget reports for the Behavioural Science Unit, when his phone rung.
Picking it up, he responded: "Tunberry."
"Director, it's the London Police Commissioner. He say's its urgent."
"Put him through," said Tunberry. There was a series of rapid clicks and beeps.
"Director, thank you for taking the time to talk."
"What is it Commissioner?"
"Sir, this morning, there was a particularly brutal murder in London. Regional Interpol office just identified the suspected perpetrator. Doctor Hannibal Lecter."
Tunberry sat up: "Has this been confirmed?"
"Less than ten minutes ago."
"Do you want to hand this over to us?"
"We believe Lecter has left the country, we are going to have to co-work with other law-enforcement agencies. We want to take point…but we need help."
"Alright," said Tunberry, "I'm on it."
--
Russia, a few moments to midnight. (Russia Local Time).
Kate Warner laughed softly, and gently, leaning on the man's shoulder.
"It's been a lovely day," she smiled, slurring her words ever so slightly.
"Yes," replied the man, "I enjoyed it as well."
"Here I am," Kate said, "this is my room. Would…would you like to come in. Have a drink?"
"Don't you think you've had enough?" the man's voice was soft.
Kate's eyes blurred, and the focused - sharper than before: "Hey," she said, "you look really familiar. Haven't I seen you somewhere before? Weren't you on the news? About half a year back." Her eyes widened in shock.
Hannibal Lecter's face grew grim. After all, it had been such a nice afternoon.
To Be Continued
Note: My great-grandma once stated that she had received flowers via Interpol - she actually meant Interflora! Anyway, next chapter: The News, Clarice is recruited, and the chase begins. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please review.
Mr J Tulkinhorn.