Chapter 4

I opened the zipper on the case I had brought and flipped it open. I heard Dr. Chilton draw one horrified breath as he saw my small assortment of scalpels, scissors, syringes and even a miniature saw. He seriously started to struggle against his handcuffs and to push both himself and the heavy chair away from me, the scraping sound oddly reminiscent of the opening notes of Bloch's violin concerto. I was tempted to hum along but thought better of it.

"Don't do anything you might regret!" he croaked. "There's a real Sergeant Finch out there in the corridors who will be here any minute to check on me! You won't get far if you kill me now!"

"I'm sorry to inform you, Dr. Chilton, but Sergeant Finch is not going to come," I replied as I examined my newest and, of course, sharpest scalpel, pondering on whether to break it in today.

"You killed him?"

I looked up.

"That is indeed one way of putting it."

Chilton's face grew as gray as the mortar on my damp prison walls back in Baltimore. His self-assured façade was finally beginning to show the first cracks; his mouth was distorted in fear and disgust.

"My God…"

"Were you really hoping someone was going to save you? Is that why you've stood your ground so bravely all this time? Because I've got to say, Chilton, you've been very brave. No one in a position as unfortunate as yours right now has ever defied me like that. If it is any consolation to you, that really earned you some respect on my part, a respect that you actually don't deserve considering your behavior in the past… Especially towards me and also towards Clarice Starling. Well, have you got anything else to say for yourself, Dr. Chilton?"

"You're not going to make me say I'm sorry!" he spat with a surprising amount of dignity.

"That won't be necessary. Your key task merely consists in being present as I proceed with my plans."

I had just returned my attention to my trusted instruments again when an ear-splitting scream disrupted the moment of quiet.

"HEEEELP! Somebody help me!"

Chilton's head was thrown back, his face turned red with strain, his teeth and his mouth cavity, that was as black as his soul, bared at me like a cornered animal. I was on him at once, closing his mouth with my latex-gloved palm to muffle his cry. He kept on screaming and wriggling under my grip and then suddenly tried to bite me before I could even hiss at him to be silent. The first time he failed but the second time he caught the knuckle of my middle finger and a searing pain shot through me as his teeth connected with the bone. I suppressed a cry of both pain and anger and brought my right hand, which was still holding the scalpel, up to his field of vision. I moved my face so close to his that our noses were almost touching. His wriggling subsided slowly as did the pain in my finger.

"Don't do that again or you will forfeit an eye or two!" I told him, pronouncing every word very distinctly. His – yet intact – eyes grew wide and he stared at me rather than at the cool, shimmering blade in my hand, as though hypnotized.

"I'm going to take my hand away from your mouth now," I informed him just as calm. "And I expect no more follies on your part, Frederick!"

I could see the inner conflict in his eyes, the age-old question of whether to obey or revolt against his superior. I didn't really care; he was at my mercy either way. I moved back and took my hand from his face while keeping the scalpel raised as a warning. Finally I tore my gaze away from his, too, to examine my injured middle finger. Through the latex I could see that the skin had turned blue where Chilton's teeth had been; bending the finger induced another wave of pain.

"You are such a savage!" I snarled at him. "You cannot even take death like a man, oh no, you have to make a pitiful bid for escape. And what has it earned you? Nothing! Except that this is the point where you've finally lost the right to speak," I continued and stuffed the end of his tie into his mouth when he opened it to protest. Chilton made a muffled sound and gagged on the dry cloth.

While he was busy trying not to suffocate and to get rid of the tie again, I made a quick beeline for the door to listen for anyone Chilton might have alerted with his cry, drawing Chilton's gun from my pocket on the way as a safety measure. Since the door was still locked no one could enter unnoticed and if then only by brute force; but if someone had actually come to the rescue I wanted to have a good head start – preferably out of a window. Before, however, I would have to slit Chilton's throat to carry out my plan at least partially. I knew this was my one and only chance to get hold of him so I couldn't postpone any of the agendas I had in store for him. It was now or never.

"We are lucky – there is no sign of life outside," I announced after a moment of listening to no other sound than the reverberation of my own blood rushing through my head. "So, Frederick, without any further ado, let us begin with the ceremony."

I returned to the desk and put the gun and the scalpel down. Carefully I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt and picked up the scalpel again. The rushing in my head was quickly subsiding now – only to be replaced by Chilton's rapid breathing, which resounded like a second heartbeat in my ears.

I rinsed the steel instruments in a water glass I had found on Chilton's sideboard and dried them with the tissue it had stood on. For now, that would have to do. I put the scalpels and knives thoroughly back into their case and checked the status of the clear plastic bag on the desk – nothing had seeped through. Its crimson contents glittered softly and wet, though they were more precious to me than the assortment of jewels they looked like. I would pay my respect to them later on when I prepared the pieces the way they deserved it; probably by involving a good red or white wine. I only noticed that I was licking my lips in anticipation because I suddenly became aware of their dryness and a stale metal flavor.

"You couldn't say I didn't honor your sacrifice, Frederick," I murmured, giving the blood-spattered body of the psychiatrist a fleeting glance. "This way we will never be parted and I'll never have to worry about where you are. You will never be able to taunt me again. From now on, I'm the one in control again. I will confine you in me as you have confined my body in your prison for all those years."

A vision of presenting Chilton's lungs and liver, my Lucullan trophies, to Clarice to prove that justice had been served and our common enemy eliminated crossed my mind's eye but I knew that she would not approve of such clumsy argumentation. I could almost see the mouth in her snow-white face curl in disgust rather than in the triumphant smile I would have liked to cause by sharing this memory with her.

I looked at Chilton one last time. It was a silent farewell. His pale chin had sunk to his chest and his closed eyes would have given the impression that he was quietly asleep had it not been for the angry gashes in his torso and the myriads of blood that had darkened his remaining clothes and formed a pool under his chair, from which little ruby rivulets were meandering their way along the joints of the floor tiles. Only in his death, it seemed, had Chilton been able to bring peace to the world and to create art – to become art, guided by his master's hand. How futile this artwork was – soon enough the blood would dry and his body would be removed by the coroner. I was the only witness to Chilton's last achievement, the private onlooker in a moment of greatness.

As I tore my eyes away from him, I noticed a movement and could see my own glance staring back at me from the mirror on the dresser. But whatever pride I might have felt in the face of my latest work, my eyes revealed nothing of that. Instead I watched my reflection put on an ivory-colored fedora hat and nod approvingly at the result.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who got the better of them all?" the reflection mouthed back at me with red lips and then my hand reached up and wiped away the last bloody stains.

The only thing left to do now was to turn off the lights and thus to immerse the room in utter darkness. Not one ray of light passed through the drapes but even if they hadn't been closed I probably wouldn't have seen much; night falls quickly in the Mediterranean and after all, my interlude with Chilton had taken some time. With a safe instinct worthy of any somnambulist I crossed the dark room and picked up my jacket first, followed by the instrument case that went back into the jacket pocket, as did the gun, and finally I found the smooth shape of my trophy bag. Soon enough its content, Chilton's last remains, would be erased from this world forever and only continue to exist in me.

I felt it soft against the palm of my left hand as I arranged the jacket carefully to cover the bag. I parted the heavy curtains in front of the high casement windows with my free hand and looked outside. The world had gone black but the cold white light from the streetlamps was cutting through the darkness, etching out the silhouettes of cars, window frames and the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the grass-covered yard with sharp lines. There were few people in the street and those who were there were conveniently busy with themselves – talking and laughing as they went past. I opened the window and for an instant I stood there letting the cool air caress my face. The touch of freedom. After all those years in prison I was finally able to appreciate the simple things in life, too. For whatever it's worth, I guess.

I tore my thoughts away from the memories of canned air and moldy walls to concentrate with all my senses on the problem at hand. I peered left and right. On the left I could see the paved path leading to the main entrance. The pavement on the other side of the fence was empty – as was the footpath. The window wasn't too high up in the wall, maybe four or five feet above ground level. I put my precious loot and the jacket on the window sill and climbed next to them. Even though I was quite fit for my age my knees didn't exactly like it when my feet connected hard with the pavement after my jump. I suppressed some very uncouth words that were already on the tip of my tongue as well as a significant cry of pain and reached for the bundle on the window sill. I took off the latex gloves I was still wearing, put them in my pocket and started walking towards the main path. The spotlights in the ground that illuminated the building's façade quivered briefly and cast distorted black shadows on the wall every time I walked passed one. The plastic bag lay safe and warm in the crook of my arm, covered by the jacket, and I held it as cautiously as if it were my first-born, although it was really the last reminder of one of the more vicious parts in my life; one that I would have preferred not to go through. Yet we cannot escape our own history – we are all what we've come to be. And I knew damn well what I was.

The weight of the gun pulled on the jacket, pushing against my leg with every step, but this way I would be able to draw it at once should anything unforeseen happen on these final, painstaking meters to freedom. I reached the main path, tipped my hat by way of greeting at the two men on their way in who just nodded back at me, and walked toward the iron gate that separated my past from my future.