"Ernest Hemingway once wrote: 'The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for'. I agree with the second part."
SE7EN written by Andrew Kevin Walker
HER BURNING HEART
The Story of Lilia
Derevko by JetNoir
Note: I'm not sure whether the stranger sequences are appropriate, but I like writing surreal dream sequences. I even wrote two entire stories which were surreal dream sequences (but not many actually read them!). And apologies for the length of time since I wrote the last chapter, but I've had a rough few months. Now, this is where it gets confusing. This chapter is set after Lilia's training, but before the time Lilia wrote her note about her soul and Christmas (Chapter Seven). I guess I've only myself to blame for that…
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - The Day The World Ceased To Exist
19th October 1996
Washington, D.C.
"C'mon. Just a fix. Just a little bit. To take the pain, y'know." The girl's voice was whiny and rather dull, and to Michael Roscoro, her glassy eyes looked dead. Or would be, soon.
The girl was known as Angela, surname a mystery. She was addicted to heroin, and Roscoro was her supplier.
"I'm a nice guy," said Michael, his hands shoved in his pockets, "I'm generous, Angela. I've given you three hits now, out of the goodness of my heart. You promised to pay. But here we are, right on the edge. I need my money, Angela, and I need it now."
"Mikey…come on. You know I'm good for it."
Michael shook his head: "You like baseball, Angela. You know about three strikes, and you're out? This is you're fourth one, and you owe me several thousand now. It's racking up. So what you gonna do?"
"What can I do, Mikey? I'm dyin' here."
"Boo hoo."
"Mikey!"
"My heart bleeds for you. But my pocket don't. So what you gonna do?"
"I'm broke, Mikey! That's the truth. Work's dried up, 'round here. You know it as well as I do. I need a fix, and soon. But I can't get you the money just yet."
"Too bad," said Michael, taking his right hand out of his pocket, drawing a small silver pistol, cocking it, and pulled the trigger.
Angela never knew what hit her…and when rumours of her death spread, the many people who owed Michael Roscoro money, stumped up, pretty sharpish.
Sometimes you've just got to make an example.
--
Unknown Location
Eternity.
It stretched before Lilia Derevko like an ocean; swirling sands, and darkness echoing before her.
It was an abyss. Empty and lifeless, yet oddly beautiful.
She looked upwards and saw the stars, which glittered with a burgundy tint.
But when she looked back down, the eternity was disappearing, stretching and shifting. The abyss was swallowing itself.
When there was nothing left, (and this didn't take long), all that was left was the Earth, shaped like a tangerine, floating, an object in space.
Then without so much as a whisper, it blinked right of existence.
--
Home of Lilia Derevko, Washington, D.C.
Lilia awoke calmly, her eyes opening without fuss or hesitation. She knew exactly where she was, and a feeling of calm had descended on her. These dreams, albeit strange, were not disturbing. The head of James', rammed rudely on a pike, quoting Shakespeare was disturbing.
Getting out of bed, she headed quickly to the bathroom, and undressing, got into the shower.
Her schedule was exact, and comforting.
A little boring, though.
--
20th October 1996
Behavioural Science; Quantico Virginia
Agent Cartwright was having a bad day.
There was no other way to put it, for in a polite, civilised world, Agent Cartwright's job would be totally unnecessary. So she alternately hated and loved her job. Loved it for the challenge, but hated it for what it said the world meant.
On this cold day, there are twenty-two serial murderers (including the then-dubbed 'K.F.C.', and of course, Doctor Hannibal Lecter) at large, probably in the United States of America. It was Agent Cartwright's job to capture them all. With a little help. Emphasis being on the word 'little'. Behavioural Science was understaffed, over budget, and generally exhausted. Yet it was such a crucial department, that few could say no to it's requests. After all, it wasn't exactly, their collective faults.
Slurping down a cup of coffee, Agent Cartwright winced, as it scolded her tongue. She slammed the cup down, making the papers fly in the air, and the table shake slightly. The cup didn't break, and not a drop of acrid liquid was spilt. She had perfected this release of frustration into an art form.
Before her lay the evil of the world. She did not flinch, she couldn't; for that would mean defeat. It would mean that they were stronger than her.
In seventy-two days, she would capture the third person on the ten-most wanted list. She would be gravely injured doing so, but would recover. The pain she is about to encounter was a willing sacrifice of her flesh, and her blood.
But today, on this cold October (late) morning, she was worried. The Boggart would strike again. She was waiting for confirmation. She knew the phone would ring any moment, and she dreaded it's shrill ring.
Sure enough, the inevitable happened, and before the first ring had ended, her hand had shot out and grabbed the receiver.
"Cartwright," she said.
--
Crime Scene; Washington, D.C.
"It's not our guy," said Jack Crawford, Section Chief, wrapped up in a trench coat to counter the chill, "It's not Boggart."
"I don't know whether to be happy or sad. Do we know who it is."
"No record. Female, Caucasian, young, junkie. Derevko, at Forensics matched fingerprints. It's some guy named Roscoro, Michael. Some small time pusher, aiming big. I think Narcotics want him. Slight problem, DNA was contaminated, and the fingerprint isn't enough to build an entire case. We need stronger evidence, but it's a step forward. Shame about the price."
"Thanks, sir. I'll get to work with the updated profiles. Shall I give this to Starling?"
"Yes, as soon as possible."
"Alright."
Cartwright put the phone down without saying goodbye. That was something she'd learned from Crawford.
--
Narcotics - J. Edgar Hoover Building; Washington, D.C.
"Starling." She brushed an errant hair off her nose, and leaned back in her chair.
"Clarice, this is Cartwright, over at Behavioural Science. We've got good news and bad news."
"You've got the Boggart?"
"No, worse luck. I don't know what it is with this guy. There's been a murder, and we were sent out. No idea why, completely different M.O. We got a fingerprint, but just one. Michael Roscoro."
"Son of a bitch! We got him."
"Nope, sorry. The DNA was contaminated. You don't have enough for a warrant, let alone a conviction. But it's still a step in the right direction."
"Yeah. Not quite the news I was hoping for. Who's handling forensics?"
"Lilia Derevko."
"The new graduate. That whizzkid. I've been meaning to meet her."
"Well now's your chance. Look, Clarice, I'm sorry this isn't anything more, and I have to go. Crawford's still pushing to get you a position over here, no luck yet."
"Thanks," said Clarice, "it means a lot."
"Not at all," finished Cartwright putting the phone down. She would end up being the next victim of the Boggart, twenty days from now - but at least it would be painless, and that's more than could be said for the majority of it's victims.
Twenty-one days from now, the Boggart would be caught. Slim comfort for Cartwright, mind.
"Matt?"
Matthew Ito looked up, his neck cricking slightly: "Yes, Clarice."
"Roscoro just murdered someone, but it's not enough to build a case. I'm heading over to forensics."
Matt just nodded, and went back to his file.
--
Forensics - J. Edgar Hoover Building; Washington, D.C.
"Cola, indeterminate brand." This was Clarice's welcome from Lilia Derevko, her accent thicker than usual.
"At the risk of sounding stupid," said Clarice, "but huh?"
Lilia looked up, her hair flying back: "Agent Starling? Clarice Starling?"
"You know me?"
"Uh, no. But it's an honour to meet you at last." Lilia smiled, and Clarice smiled back, confused. Of course this wasn't the first time they had met…but in the chase for Jame Gumb, she had completely forgotten little Christine.
"So," said Clarice, "what were you saying about cola?"
"Actually it's an urban myth. I was examining some blood from the crime. They say cola helps wash away blood. Actually it does, to some degree. More so than just water, but it doesn't get rid of it completely. More fool he, but difficult for me. Anyway, how may I be of service Miss Starling?"
"Doctor Derevko," but before Clarice could finish her statement, Lilia held up her hand:
"Call me Lilia, please."
"Then I'm Clarice. Anyway, Lilia, I'm obviously frustrated by this lack of evidence; not your fault of course, but we need something to nail this guy."
"Yes, I'm puzzled by the level of contamination. As horrible as it is, you will have to wait for him to kill again, unless you can get him on the drug front, the maybe the D.A. would let the murder come in. Of course you need evidence to get him in the first place. I'll keep trawling through this, but until then, I'm extremely sorry."
--
22nd October 1996
Alley outside Three Bells Tavern; Washington, D.C.
Three p.m.
For all of Michael Roscoro's vast intelligence network, his gaze didn't quite penetrate law enforcement. He had contacts in the Police, but none in the FBI, indeed, he had no clue they wanted him. Perhaps this was withheld by his subordinates, in hope they might one day take over his business.
"C'mon Mikey, I'm good for it! Just give me a little time!"
"Rex, Rex, Rex. What am I to do with you. Yea gods, is everyone broke. You owe me a lot, several payments now. You credit is dry, just like your supply of heroin. And I know about your flat. The eviction…living on the streets. Hell's bell's, you thought you could keep that from me? Rex, what do you take me for."
"Mikey!"
Roscoro pulled the small silver pistol, cocked it and fired, wincing as a stream of blood made his way off his cheek. There seemed to be some powder burns that had hit an artery, and they fell. It was from the same place when he had killed Angela, and this time the blood would fall unadulterated.
"Hey! What's going on?" The owner of the Tavern had walked out the back. Turning quickly, so the owner didn't see his face, Roscoro fled.
It was to be his undoing.
--
Three hours later, Lilia was up to her eyeballs in blood.
Well, metaphorically speaking of course. She was clad from head to foot to protect both her, and the crime scene, and a small army (within budget constraints, of course) of forensics and technicians. There was a heavy rain forecast for a few hours time, so they were busy cataloguing every blood sample on the ground (there was surprisingly many, but Lilia was always shocked by how much blood there was in a human body.)
Talking about blood…
Lilia looked up, to the sky, and remembered something. 12th February 1989. Only seven years ago, yet she was a young girl then. It happened a year before she had met the intoxicating Clarice Starling; and she had just received her harpy, from 'Matthew Reeves', a then behind-bars Hannibal Lecter. How he had pulled it off, she would never know, but when he had escaped, he had risked exposure contacting her. That struck her as odd, and thoughtful.
Going back to that dark night, she had gone for a walk, and ended up murdering a perfect stranger. A homeless man who snarled at her. He had tasted very good, his soul was obviously satisfying. Now, here she was, on the other side of the law. A soul eater, perhaps the only one in the whole world. Then the heavens had opened and washed away the evidence. That couldn't be allowed to happen now. She must be able to help Clarice.
--
23rd October 1996
J. Edgar Hoover Building; Washington, D.C.
Midnight. The clocks had just turned to a new day, and Lilia had not noticed. All the evidence (plus corpse) had been catalogued and stored, ready for distribution, and Lilia currently had her eye stuck through a microscope. Not daring to hope, she sat up, slugged a mouthful of cola (her macabre sense of humour found the idea delicious), and quickly placed the same eye to another microscope placed side by side. Fingerprints, and blood matches. They had to wait for DNA, but they would have enough for a case. Now, they could raid.
Lilia leaned backwards, and with an elegant motion, picked up the receiver of the phone, and dialled Narcotics, before resuming her upright position and smiling.
"Starling."
"I got a match. Blood of victim, and Roscoro, matches file. Fingerprints on a stone from the building. Bullet matches the previous victim, no casing found, it was fired from a revolver. Victim was a junkie, living on the streets. We'll know on DNA in three hours, the computer needs to make sure. Go get a warrant."
"Oh, bless you, Lilia. Judge Peters should be still up. Want to come with me?"
"Yes, please."
--
Michael Roscoro Residence; Washington, D.C.
One block away. A black S.W.A.T. van. It was a skeleton team (budget constraints).
"Alright people, listen up," said Starling to the three armoured S.W.A.T.'s, and Lilia, also suited up, "the guy we're after is Michael Roscoro, and he's a drug dealer. Bloodwork says he's HIV-negative, but it's a potentially dangerous environment. Our warrant allows us to arrest all inside. Now D.C.P.D. are having a busy night, but will be along in t-minus thirty minutes to pick up our suspects. Then an FBI team of forensics will comb the place from top to bottom. First up, we need to ascertain the number of people inside, and then choose fast and loud, or slow and quiet. Leigh, you're up. Subtle does it."
Leigh nodded and got out the van into the night. He was back in a few minutes.
"I checked the windows with the scope, and tried heat-seeking, only one that I could make out. Male, fits Roscoro's description."
"Well then," said Starling, putting on a helmet, and picking up a shotgun, "slow and quiet. Anyone know how to pick a lock?"
--
That was a bad joke, every member of the team knew how, but out of Leigh and Perkins, it was Hitchcock who volunteered. The S.W.A.T.'s rifles were all well used, and aimed at the door. Lilia's pistol (which seemed to large for her hands, but she was well versed in it's use), was aimed at her feet. Clarice was taking point, the S.W.A.T.'s behind her, and Lilia covering the rear. All had full body armour, with a ceramic plate covering the chest, and back. Nobody was taking any chances. Lilia's lithe body was struggling with the armour, but she was coping well.
With a slight click, the lock sprang back, and the door slid open.
Then what seemed to be every alarm in the street sounded.
"Crap!" mouthed Clarice, but her words were drowned out by the howl of the claxon. She rushed forward, knocking Hitchcock onto one arm, rifle outstretched. The S.W.A.T.'s stumbled but managed to follow, as did Lilia. The first room had two exits, a staircase to the north, and the other exit to the west. It was from there Roscoro appeared. He had a large rifle, and opened fire. Clarice managed to get behind a wall, and the bricks protected her but Perkins was not so nimble, and he fell to the ground. He had been located sideways, and the armour didn't quite surround there. Blood seeped to the floor.
Leigh had been standing towards the door, and he flew backwards, the force of the bullets knocking him to the ground. He was unhurt (apart from a little bruising). Hitchcock, and Lilia hadn't made it that far yet.
"FBI!" screamed Clarice over the klaxon, "Put the weapon down," but her response was another hail of gunfire.
She stuck her shotgun round the corner of the wall and fired blindly, but it was obvious she missed. Hitchcock took use of the distraction to move to the other side of the doorway, firing as he went. Lilia just stayed back.
Starling and Hitchcock ceased fire after a few moments, and hearing nothing but silence, Clarice used a small periscope (military issue) to peek round the corner. Roscoro had vanished.
The four remaining people, (Leigh had rejoined them) recoiled as the deafening klaxon ceased.
"Leigh," said Starling, "we follow Roscoro. Lilia and Hitchcock, to the door near the stairs, see if there is another way round he went. And radio for backup."
--
Hitchcock still took point, but Lilia had her gun aimed forwards. She was sweating heavily, and strangely anxious. Almost scared.
Five gunshots went off. A rifle, on semi-automatic. Hitchcock and Lilia rushed forward to find Roscoro with a silver gun to Clarice's head, and a rifle aimed at them. Leigh was either dead or dying on the floor, Lilia couldn't tell.
"Come on people," said Roscoro, smiling, "you know the drill. Put your weapons on the floor, and kick them to me."
"Don't," said Clarice, but she was too late, as Hitchcock dropped his rifle to the ground, and stood there. The rule was, you didn't negotiate, but when in the field…well, Hitchcock was scared.
But Lilia didn't drop her pistol, instead allowing it to remain aimed at Roscoro's middle skull. She knew the exact place…it was against regulations…but Roscoro wouldn't let them go…and she needed to do something…and what a mess this was…sweaty and confusing.
Lilia fired.
--
"You could have killed me!" said Clarice, indignant, her face and hair covered with the blood, brain and bone matter of Michael Roscoro, recently deceased. Leigh had joined Perkins, and Hitchcock was shaking on the floor. It turned out it had been his first assignment. It wouldn't be his last, and he would learn from this example. Forensics, FBI, D.C.P.D., and FBI Internal Affairs were swarming over the house like hornets.
Matt Ito was leading the search through the computers. He had thanked Lilia profusely.
In one corner, forgotten by the masses, Clarice and Lilia sat, facing each other. With many pieces of towel, and other items, Lilia was tenderly wiping the remains off Clarice's face and hair. They knew forensics would have enough, and in that moment, both of them came to an understanding. It would be the beginnings of a close friendship, which would ultimately end in death.
--
25th October 1996
Excerpt from FBI Report, regarding Dr Lilia Derevko's shooting of Michael Roscoro
"…Having reviewed the mass of forensic evidence, and testimonials, it is without doubt that Dr Derevko acted in the best interests of justice, in defence of her team. I truly believe that had she been not present, then the remaining members of the team might also be dead…"
FBI Director Tunberry.
--
Home of Lilia Derevko; Washington, D.C.
Late Night. Cold.
Lilia sits in an armchair, the only light coming from the lamp beside her, and she is wrapped up warm.
She is conflicted at her state. Was this some mind game of Dr Lecter's that she had followed so easily, and truly?
She was a murderer. A 'bad guy' to simplify matters. Now she was a mole, a plant. She was working for the 'good guys'. Surely that wasn't meant to happen. It was wrong, even she could see that. Only she could see that.
She wept, because she felt she was losing her soul.
So for Lilia Derevko, this was the day that the world ceased to exist.
--
Note: So at this point, chronologically speaking, chapter seven would occur. Right, sorted that out. The bit about cola is true, it does help wash blood out (but not by much), and I'm unsure about the level of contamination used. Due to the level of forensic detail in this section, I decided not to write every single last thing, as that would almost certainly fill a novel on it's own, which I have no intention of doing! But I think it make's sense. What I find difficult is that there are only two chapters left - and I don't want this story to end! But there is a part of me that is desperate to move on to the five and final story in the series - but I want to clear this one up first. The next chapter is going to be very difficult, as I will be bringing us up to the present day, and revisiting events from 'Lessons' - so those that know this story will now realise what I'm rabbiting on about. Hopefully it won't take too long, and I guess I'll see you there. Finally, I hoped you enjoyed it, and please review.
Disclaimer: Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page (that includes links) without my express written permission. Thankyou!
JetNoir