Clarice Starling sat before the enormous emblem that adorned the wall, its presence commanding and unmistakable. The bold words "Fidelity," "Bravery," and "Integrity" stood out against the deep blue backdrop, igniting a familiar spark within her.
It had been years since the sight of the FBI emblem sent a shiver down her spine, yet this visceral response felt like returning home. As a little girl, flipping through dusty old library books, she had first glimpsed this symbol—a mere image back then, shrouded in mystery. There was something about it—a grandeur—that made her stand a little taller. She had longed not just to see the emblem on those aged pages, but to experience it in all its glory, to stand before it in reality. With every step she took toward that dream, the symbol transformed from a fleeting picture into the guiding force of her ambition, illuminating her path to the hallowed halls of the Quantico FBI Academy.
Now, she was no longer that naive child. She understood the weight of the emblem and the expectations it entailed. The aspirations that once seemed distant had crystallized into a clear vision: simply becoming an FBI agent would not suffice. She craved more; she wanted to ascend and surpass even the lofty standards she had internalized. Here she was, finally sitting in the very office of Jack Crawford, head of the Behavioral Science Unit—the epitome of her ambitions.
Her heart raced with anticipation, each beat sending a thrill through her as her foot began to dance against the wooden floor. She fought to rein it in, knowing all too well that the last thing she wanted was for Jack Crawford to misinterpret her fervor as anxiety or her resolve as doubt. But no matter how hard she tried, it felt like wrestling with a wayward limb; short of physically pinning her foot to the floor like a reluctant fugitive, she found herself at a loss.
And frankly, screw that.
Clarice stole another glance at the gleaming FBI emblem, her foot tapping earnestly against the wooden floor.
Finally, she was here—exactly where she had always dreamed of being. A rush of excitement coursed through her veins; she felt ready. Her theory was solid, and her conclusions were meticulously backed by unwavering evidence. To top it all off, Jack Crawford himself had requested this meeting. Everything was aligning just as she had imagined.
However, beneath that anticipation simmered a wave of nerves, urging her to breathe deeply and steady herself. This moment mattered. She needed it to unfold flawlessly.
Evidence, then conclusion.
Evidence, then conclusion.
Evidence, then conclusion.
Clarice's foot continued its relentless dance, each tap echoing her racing thoughts. The stakes were high, but this was her moment—she would seize it.
"I see you've made yourself comfortable," a gravelly voice sliced through the air behind her.
Clarice's carefully constructed thoughts went into freefall as she sprang to her feet.
"Sir," she managed to stammer, her spine snapping straight as though pulled by an invisible string at the sight of the imposing figure filling the doorway. "I was informed you wanted to see me immediately."
Jack Crawford's piercing gaze swept over her, a single eyebrow arched in disapproval. Her throat tightened as he strode into the room, the very embodiment of authority.
"I did," he replied, his tone dripping with casual disdain. "But let's clarify how things work around here: the rookie agent waits outside and is graciously invited in by their superior. They don't just waltz in and plop themselves down like they own the place."
Clarice stood silently, taking in the way Crawford moved with calculated assurance, how he tossed confidential files onto his desk as if they were mere trifles, and the intensity of his glare that seemed to pierce through her.
Her mouth parted, but her mind was a whirlwind of panic—'Oh no, oh no, oh no.'
"I... the door was open, sir. I thought it would be alright to come in," she replied, her voice barely rising above a whisper, even to her own ears.
Crawford exhaled a heavy sigh, as if steeling himself for the impending conversation. "That's what you thought? Well, until you've put in a couple of years in this job, you should consider every door on this floor metaphorically closed. Now sit down, Agent Starling."
His command hung in the air, and Clarice jumped slightly at his tone. Right, she was still standing there like a soldier at roll call. She nodded, doing her best to maintain composure, and gracefully settled into the chair across from him.
As they took their seats, the stark contrast in their postures became unmistakable. Crawford towered over her like a formidable titan, and for a fleeting moment, Clarice was transported back to her high school principal's office—a place where authority loomed large and felt just as unsettling.
"I trust you know why you're here," Crawford said, his words hanging heavily in the air after a tense pause.
Clarice cleared her throat, steadying herself. She nodded once, slowly and deliberately, channelling all the professionalism she could muster—an FBI agent speaking with her superior, not a nervous girl addressing a teacher. Yes, she understood the reason for her summons, and she was ready to articulate it.
"Yes, you wanted to discuss the Phantom Killer case, sir."
"Cut the 'sir' after every sentence, Starling."
"Yes, sir."
Crawford sighed, a weary sound. He reached for a stack of papers, pulling out a file that made Clarice's stomach twist. It contained the very notes she'd hastily scribbled yesterday.
Crawford's gaze shifted between the file and her, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Clarice swallowed hard, determined to stay on course. Evidence and conclusions—this was her forte. She took a deep breath, preparing to cut through the tension.
"Do I look like a schoolgirl to you, Starling?"
Clarice nearly choked; the carefully crafted professional sentence evaporated in an instant. Instead, she stammered out a timid, "...Most certainly not, sir?"
"Price passed this along to me this morning."
"Yes, I suspected as much. I shared some thoughts about the case with Agent Price, and he promised to relay them to you…"
"I'm not a schoolgirl who needs notes passed in class. This is the FBI, Agent Starling. If you have insights, you prepare an official report that I'll review through the proper channels."
"I understand that, sir. I hoped to expedite the process, given the urgency of the case."
"You thought your insights were so vital they demanded to be heard at once?" Crawford's tone dripped with skepticism.
Panic surged through her. This wasn't going according to plan—not at all. Despite the heat rising to her cheeks, Clarice steeled herself, her voice breaking through the tension with surprising confidence.
"I believe that to be the case, sir, yes."
Nervous energy coursed through her, edging toward mortification, but she was resolute. Her theory was rock-solid, her conclusions bolstered by undeniable evidence. This conviction flickered like a flame, unwavering in the face of Jack Crawford's penetrating gaze.
He studied her intently, his expression enigmatic, and she instinctively straightened her posture, hoping to convey the confidence he sought.
Crawford finally broke his scrutinizing gaze to glance at the papers strewn across his desk. "The Phantom Killer…" he murmured, a hint of skepticism threading through his tone. "Are you a fan of , Agent Starling?"
Clarice offered a brief shake of her head, noting the veiled contempt in his voice for future reference.
"I'm aware of Miss Lounds' website and its reputation, but I never actually read it. However, 'The Phantom Killer' is a title most media outlets adopted for this murderer. It's a name I overheard tossed around among fellow agents. While I don't know who coined it, I believe it's fitting."
"You do?" Crawford raised an eyebrow.
"Yes. The killer left no trace, no tangible evidence—only a body. Until a suspect is identified, it might as well have been the work of a phantom."
"A phantom… one?" Crawford's curiosity piqued, drawing her in further.
Clarice straightened even more, feeling an electrifying thrill surge through her. This was the moment she had been waiting for, the crucial insight she clung to as if it were a lifeline.
"I know the current working theory is that there are two killers…"
"It is my theory."
Crawford's gaze bore into her—part challenge, part curiosity—as if he were testing the waters to see how she might sway under his influence.
"Yes, I think you're mistaken about that, sir."
The words hung heavily in the air, charged with the tension of her unwavering confidence. He scrutinized her intently, his gaze narrowing just enough for Clarice to feel a shiver race down her arms. Instinctively, she tugged at her sleeve, trying to hide her unease.
"A bold statement. Especially from an agent still in diapers. I've read your file, Starling. Your credentials are undeniably impressive, which leads me to believe you're not foolish enough to make such a statement without solid evidence. I'm willing to let you prove yourself."
His words dripped with challenge, and Clarice couldn't miss the unspoken dare flickering in his eyes. She swallowed hard, her mind racing.
Evidence, conclusion. Evidence, conclusion.
"It must be the work of a single individual. The similarities in the crimes are too pronounced to dismiss. This person approaches each victim uniquely, yet with a singular, chilling objective- to kill. They have no interest in inflicting pain, or humiliation, There is no personal vendetta against any of the victims. The death is quick, serving as a means to an end. The mutilation occurs post mortem…"
"Not all of them; some victims exhibit antemortem injuries."
"I believe that the differences in the killer's approach are directly linked to the victims' behaviour. The more resistance they show, the more violent the killer becomes. I think the antemortem injuries are likely accidental."
"Except the victims seem to not put up any fight at all. Zeller and Price said that there are hardly any defensive wounds on any of them."
"Not a physical fight. I suspect the killer exercises a form of mental dominance over the victims. That's why there are no signs of resistance. Just because their bodies are unmarked doesn't mean they didn't struggle."
"Struggle how? Verbally?"
"That's right. They all cried—every single one of them. Agent Price informed me that traces of water, salts, antibodies, and lysozymes were found all over their faces. It's as if the killer manipulates them, breaking them down psychologically and pushing them to their limits."
"That's quite the portrait you're painting of this killer… someone with such capabilities. What's your take on the psychological profile of the Phantom Killer?"
Clarice leaned in, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "They're at the top of their game—self-assured and highly capable. They don't chase after common thrills; the usual rewards don't tempt them. The rules don't intimidate them either. Instead, they're bored… restless. They yearn for something deeper, something that truly frightens them—a challenge that terrifies them. To feel alive, they have to reach for a bigger reward in order to face a greater fear."
"And that greater fear would be the full force of the FBI?" Crawford interjected.
"Yes, sir."
"And you're confident that our current suspect isn't the killer, correct?"
Clarice swallowed hard, briefly closing her eyes to gather her thoughts as she grounded herself against Crawford's intense gaze. "The Phantom murders were meticulously organized and flawlessly executed, with every piece of incriminating evidence carefully secured. That demands a very specific individual with a unique set of skills. Victor Boyd doesn't fit that profile. He aligns more with a disorganized offender: below-average intelligence, living alone, stuck in a menial job…"
Crawford raised an eyebrow. "Many killers hide behind a mask…"
"I don't think that's the case here," Clarice interjected swiftly, her determination cutting through. "His behavior has shifted. You've spoken to his friends and family yourself—every one of them noted the changes in him since the murders began. He couldn't create a clearer target on his back if he tried. A truly intelligent, organized offender would never make such a mistake."
"There is such a thing as a mixed offender, Agent Starling," he replied, his tone a blend of authority and intrigue. "They're more common than you might think. A crime can start off meticulously planned, only to spiral into chaos when things don't go as expected. The reverse can happen too."
Clarice interjected, her voice sharp and quick like a gunshot. "Yes, the mixed typology developed by Douglas, Ressler, Burgess, and Hartman back in 1986. I wrote two papers on it," she asserted, pressing forward despite Crawford's narrowing gaze. "The way the Phantom murders unfolded suggests the perpetrator initially encountered a chaotic scene yet managed to assert control—over both himself and the victim. To pull that off, you need someone with exceptional social and interpersonal skills. Victor Boyd doesn't fit that profile at all."
Crawford's eyes narrowed further; skepticism evident on his face. "But you just admitted that his behaviour changed drastically since the murders began. Are you suggesting that's mere coincidence?"
"No," Clarice replied, her expression steely. "I firmly believe Victor Boyd was involved in one murder—the first one, which we mistakenly assumed belonged to the Phantom. The murder of his sister. I don't think that one was linked to the Phantom at all. That was purely Victor Boyd's doing."
Crawford's frustrations intensified; he rubbed the vein pulsing on his forehead, urging her to clarify. She cleared her throat, the weight of the conversation pressing down.
"The Phantom murders are the work of a serial killer. I wouldn't classify Victor Boyd in that category. He shows no tendency to commit further crimes. His kill bore urgency, a clear motivation without any semblance of pleasure—nothing like what we see in the Phantom's work."
Jack Crawford sat silently, his expression inscrutable, which only fueled Clarice's mounting frustration. She prided herself on her ability to read people; her family, friends, and coworkers were like open books, their emotions laid bare for her to interpret. But Crawford? He was a closed chapter, revealing only snippets of his thoughts at his discretion and keeping her in a state of perpetual guessing.
Clarice gritted her teeth, the sensation of unease gnawing at her. The unknown unnerved her—without foresight, she felt defenceless.
"That… is quite an impressive insight, Agent Starling," Crawford said, breaking the silence with a thoughtful tone. "It certainly offers a fresh perspective on the case. Truth be told, I've had my own doubts about Victor Boyd. But it's been difficult to dismiss him, especially since we've always linked the death of his sister to the Phantom Killer murders."
Relief washed over Clarice as she exhaled a breath she hadn't known she was holding. A laugh bubbled up unexpectedly, escaping her lips before she could rein it in. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she shifted in her seat, clearing her throat to mask her embarrassment.
"Thank you, sir. I really value your opinion," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt.
Crawford studied her intently, a flicker of something—contemplation?—dancing in his eyes. It was different from their usual exchanges, where he kept his emotions locked away. It sent a warm thrill racing through her, and for a moment, she couldn't hide the glimmer of hope in her gaze.
"I will overlook your unorthodox methods this time," he said finally. "I'll take another look at the case with your insights in mind. Good work, Agent Starling. You may return to your duties now. I believe you have another case assigned."
And just like that, the warmth that had bloomed in her chest began to fade, doused by a wave of cold reality. Clarice found herself rooted in place, unable to move as Crawford's eyes flicked up to meet hers, concern etched across his features when he noticed her expression souring.
"Is there something else?" he asked, brow furrowing.
"I..." she hesitated, her voice trembling. Taking a moment to steady her resolve, she inhaled sharply, mustering the courage she often summoned in tense interrogations. She looked directly at Crawford with the same fierce determination she reserved for facing down a felon.
"I might have an idea about the identity of the Phantom Killer."
"Oh? Well, let's hear it," Crawford urged, leaning in slightly, curiosity sparking in his gaze. Clarice took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing heavily on her. This was the part she had withheld from her earlier conversation with Price, the piece that lingered only in the depths of her mind—a secret she felt compelled to share exclusively with Jack Crawford.
"He... is nearly impossible to describe, sir. He doesn't conform to any psychological profile because he's not exactly human. He is a predator—exceptionally intelligent, socially adept, and capable of enchanting and unsettling people in equal measure. He knows no guilt or remorse and is profoundly manipulative, devoid of any real empathy."
Her voice dropped to a near whisper, soft and cautious, as though she were calming a wild creature in the woods, terrified of being startled. Despite never having interacted with Crawford alone before, she felt a strange connection to him, forged from years of admiration since witnessing his powerful address at the FBI Academy. She might not know him well, but she believed she understood him, keenly aware of how her words tightened the lines around his eyes and how each of her syllables seemed to raise the fine hairs on his arms.
"Who... exactly are you describing, Starling?" he asked, his voice low and measured, a stark contrast to the confident, commanding presence he had exhibited moments earlier. For a brief instant, the atmosphere in the room shifted, heavy with tension.
Clarice squared her shoulders, knowing this was the moment of truth.
"I believe the Phantom Killer... is Hannibal Lecter."
The room fell into an intense silence, thick with unspoken implications. She held her gaze steady, even as Crawford's expression became unreadable.
"Get out of my office."
His command struck her like a slap. Clarice faltered, confusion flooding her mind.
"Sir...!" she protested, indignant.
"Hannibal Lecter is dead," Crawford snapped, his voice dripping with venom, forcing her to flinch. "I have a dangerous suspect to apprehend; I don't have time for ghost stories."
"But sir, I genuinely believe that..."
"I will not repeat myself."
Stunned into silence, Clarice sensed the finality in his hard eyes, a wall rising between them that she could no longer breach.
"Very well, I apologize. I just... thought the profile aligned perfectly. Maybe I was wrong."
"You were. Now, is there a reason you're still here?" Crawford's voice boomed, cutting through the stillness like a knife.
Panic surged in her chest. Had she ruined everything?
She took a sharp, steadying breath. She craved an opportunity, a chance to prove herself. For so long, she had believed that if she demonstrated her worth, someone would notice and invite her onto their team. But deep down, a nagging doubt began to surface—maybe the FBI didn't work that way. Perhaps she needed to seize what she wanted with her own hands.
"Sir," she began, her voice firmer than she had anticipated, "you mentioned that my insights have been helpful. Although I may have gone a bit overboard with my profile, I truly believe—I know—I can be an asset to your team."
He raised an eyebrow, an almost mocking smile playing at his lips. "Oh, is that what you believe?"
"Yes," she asserted, determination glinting in her eyes.
He leaned back, crossing his arms. "You just became an agent a couple of months ago. There are several hurdles you still need to clear before I would even consider adding you to my team."
She felt a flicker of frustration at his dismissive tone. Perhaps her emotions were betraying her, as Crawford's gaze softened slightly, a flicker of pity seeping through.
"I'm not saying it's impossible," he clarified, choosing his words carefully. "But it won't happen today or anytime soon. Focus on doing your job well, Starling. Leave the recruiting to me."
"Why?" she snapped, struggling to keep her voice steady, her anger threatening to crack her composure.
"I'm very selective about who I allow into my unit," he replied, his voice cool and matter-of-fact. "You lack the experience that I look for in agents…"
"That's not true," she interjected quickly, pouring out her thoughts like an avalanche. "I've wanted to join your team since my undergraduate days. I studied your unit diligently. Your team has included people who, on paper, were 'unqualified.' I believe I can match their competencies—maybe even exceed them. Just because I'm fresh out of the academy doesn't mean I lack potential. You even had a trainee on your team once…"
"Enough, Agent Starling," he interrupted, his tone biting and final. He locked eyes with her, and for the first time, she saw the raw emotion behind his façade—anger, annoyance, and a hint of disappointment.
"You have two choices: You can leave quietly, as an agent who offered valuable insights that I'll remember for the future, or you can stay and pout like a child, jeopardizing the respect you just earned. I will not welcome a child into my team."
Clarice clenched her jaw so tightly that it ached. Taking a deep breath, she stood tall and gathered her composure.
"My apologies. That was improper of me. Thank you for your time, Agent Crawford."
With that, she turned on her heel, refusing to look back as she strode away from his office, her heart pounding.
Damn it, damn it, damn it…
Clarice Starling's typically composed mind was in disarray, consumed by a singular, persistent thought: she had ruined her chance. She had blown it. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she fought back the stinging tears threatening to spill over.
She wouldn't cry. She had trained herself to rise above it. She hadn't even cried at her parents' funeral, for goodness' sake! She wouldn't shed tears now—not because Jack Crawford had...
"Damn it!" she exploded, her frustration spilling into the corridor as she kicked the wall against which she had just been leaning.
Pain shot through her foot, forcing a sharp hiss from her lips as she bent down, cradling her aching toes.
"Whoa, someone's having a rough day," a voice chimed in from behind her.
"I'm fine," she snapped, though her tone lacked conviction.
Jimmy Price stood at the end of the hall, notepad in hand, eyebrows raised in bemusement.
"People who are fine don't go around kicking walls," he remarked, as if it were an undeniable truth. "Let me guess—the meeting with Jack didn't go as planned?"
Clarice shot him a withering glare, but Jimmy quickly raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Hey, I'm not judging—I'm empathizing. I've dealt with Jack for years. You're not the first to engage in a little wall-kicking therapy around here. Trust me, we've all felt that foot pain at one point or another."
She paused, meeting his gaze. The warmth in his eyes softened her irritation. Right, this was Jimmy; there was no hidden agenda here, just camaraderie.
"I'm not the kind of person who sulks and pouts and… kicks walls," she insisted, her voice strained as she struggled to hold her composure. "I'm just trying so hard, and it's still..."
Damn it, damn it, damn it… Her eyes stung again.
She thought back to the countless hours spent studying, the opportunities she had sacrificed at the altar of her ambition—the dream of working alongside Jack Crawford and making the world a better place. Saving lives. Nothing else mattered: not the absence of close friends, not the lack of a romantic relationship, not even the whispers that claimed she was wasting her life. She had a purpose.
Yet here she was at 31, with two degrees, a PhD, and FBI training, stuck in a role that any agent could easily fill. Agents with families, vibrant social lives, and careers sparkling with promise while she lingered at a standstill.
"It gets too hard some days," she finally admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah, those days are the worst," Jimmy replied, a sympathetic look in his eyes. He offered her a lopsided smile, the kind that could lighten the heaviest heart. "How about a cookie? I know where Zeller hides them."
Clarice shot him a glare, momentarily annoyed, but Jimmy didn't take the hint. He pressed on with renewed energy.
"Oh, and do you want to see something cool?" Without waiting for her consent, he took her by the elbow and led her down the corridor toward the labs. For once, she let him steer her away from her dark thoughts.
"So, we found this really cool thing inside the drowning victim's scrotum…" He rambled enthusiastically, launching into a vivid description that pulled her along with him.
As a reluctant laugh bubbled up from deep within her, Clarice couldn't help but marvel at how Jimmy Price had unexpectedly become her only friend at the FBI. He was quirky and persistent, always finding a way to pull her back from the edge of her brooding thoughts. Every time she wondered about his relentless efforts to include her, he simply shrugged and said it was something he had wished someone had done for him once. This little insight warmed her heart, and she couldn't help but appreciate the way he made her feel less alone.
"Hey, let's get that scrotum out!" Jimmy exclaimed, brimming with enthusiasm as they entered the lab.
Zeller glanced over and acknowledged Clarice with a nod, which she returned. Her relationship with Zeller was much more stilted than with Price.
"It's all packed and labelled," Zeller replied, brushing off Jimmy's eager suggestion. "Haven't you played with it enough? By the way, where's my coffee?"
"What?" Jimmy looked puzzled.
"You said you'd get coffee," Zeller replied, crossing his arms.
"Yeah, for me. You didn't mention anything about getting you coffee…"
"It's just basic decency to grab two coffees!" Zeller insisted, his frustration evident.
"You didn't say you wanted coffee!"
"We've been here for 14 hours straight; of course, I want coffee!"
"Well, you should've just said so!"
"I shouldn't have to spell it out for you; you should know by now!"
Clarice watched the exchange with amusement, her head darting back and forth as if she were following a ping-pong match. Despite having known this quirky duo for three months, she still couldn't figure out if they genuinely disliked each other or if they were just the type of friends who always bicker. Maybe, on occasion, it was both.
Giving them a respectful distance to sort out their coffee clash, she glided away, her eyes drawn to the chaotic table nearby. It was stacked high with case files and photographs, all of which she was itching to get her hands on. All of it was something she would love to immerse herself in for hours or even days. Yet, it was just out of her reach.
She sighed deeply, her gaze fixating on the latest victim of the notorious Phantom Killer. The sight of the man was haunting; a ghastly wound marred his torso, its peculiar shape and depth igniting a spark of curiosity deep within her. There was an unsettling quality to it, a thread of mystery that tugged at her mind, urging her to delve deeper, perhaps even discuss her theories with Jack Crawford and the rest of the team...
With a slight shake of her head, she steeled herself, resolving to push those thoughts away.
Zeller finally strolled over, a teasing smirk on his face.
"So, Jack Crawford pissed in your cereal?" he quipped.
Clarice shot him a sideways glance. Zeller's penchant for bluntness was well-known, but there was an edge to his words that rubbed her the wrong way. In contrast, Jimmy's calm presence provided a soothing balm. Taking a deep breath, she turned her attention to him, her frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.
"I can't wrap my head around why he brushes me off like this," she vented, exasperation creeping into her voice. "It feels almost sexist, but I know he's worked alongside women before without issue. All I want is for him to take me seriously... to engage with me on this case, or any case, really."
"Hey, I get it," Zeller said, a rare hint of empathy softening his expression. "Jack can really be a piece of work sometimes; trust me, we've all had our run-ins with him."
"Told you!" Jimmy chimed in from his tucked-away corner, his hands wrestling with the evidence bag, his eyes darting between it and them.
"But seriously," Zeller continued, "don't take it too personally. There was only ever one person whose opinion mattered to Jack. And trust me, you don't want to be that person."
Clarice perked up, arching an eyebrow in curiosity. "You mean the trainee… Miriam Lass?"
"Nah, I'm talking about Will Graham," Zeller answered, and an almost palpable tension swept through the room, thickening the air like fog rolling in.
There was a loud sound, and Clarice saw Jimmy rushing to gather the evidence bag he had just dropped on the floor.
"You shouldn't say his name!" Jimmy blurted out, his eyes wide with urgency.
Zeller, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, shot back defiantly, "Why not?"
"Because… you know…" Jimmy began, fumbling for words as Zeller's expectant gaze bore down on him.
"It's like with Voldemort," he finally blurted out in exasperation. "You can say it, but you shouldn't, because it freaks people out."
Clarice's curiosity was absolutely piqued.
Will Graham.
She of course, knew who he was. Long before she joined the FBI, she had heard about him. As a university student, she had read his paper, spending many hours on it and even more time searching for any other academic papers he published, but there was frustratingly little available. She also closely followed the scandal surrounding his wrongful incarceration at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
Clarice knew that Will Graham was responsible for capturing many serial killers, including the infamous Hannibal Lecter. There were even rumours that he had been responsible for killing Lecter after his escape, but those were mostly speculation. To her, he always felt like a mythical figure.
She could still remember how excited she was at the prospect of learning from him, nearly rivalling the anticipation of meeting Jack Crawford. She had envisioned what it would be like to have a professor whose mind dared to confront the darkest corners of humanity. But upon arriving at the FBI Academy, her dreams shattered like glass—Will Graham had disappeared from the academic scene, leaving no trace behind.
"Why wouldn't I want to be like Will Graham? He's practically a legend around here," Clarice said, a hint of admiration in her voice.
Zeller's expression darkened slightly.
"Yeah, sure, but let's just say you might not want to follow in his footsteps," he replied, his voice carrying an ominous undertone.
"Why not? Didn't he just retire?" Clarice asked, curiosity bubbling up inside her.
Zeller shot a sideways glance at Price, their silent exchange thickening the air around them. Clarice felt like an outsider, both intrigued and more confused by the moment.
"That's one way to put it," Jimmy interjected, his tone casual yet loaded.
"And what's the other way?" Clarice pressed.
"Dishonourable discharge?" Zeller quipped, only to receive a swift slap on the arm from Jimmy.
"And just like that, you've already said too much! Jack will be furious. And when Jack's furious, he takes it out on everyone. Why are you being so selfish?" Jimmy chided.
"I'm not being selfish! If anything, it's Jack who's being selfish! We really could use Will's help right now…" Zeller retorted, irritation threading his words.
"Stop talking about you-know-who!" Jimmy shot back, a hint of panic in his voice.
"You know what? I'm done tiptoeing around this," Zeller shot back, his playful facade dropping to reveal his determination. "Do you even realize how many unsolved murders are piling up? Will could crack those cases in a day and still make it home in time to walk his hundred dogs."
"Jack clearly has his reasons…" Price replied.
"Jack has his pride, and that's it. You can't honestly tell me we wouldn't benefit from Will's help right now. Every case would go much smoother…"
"No, it would go faster, but definitely not smoother!" Price countered.
"Why don't you just call him?" Clarice challenged, her voice slicing through the tension in the room.
Both men paused, caught off guard.
With unyielding determination, she pressed on, "Seriously, if you have a way to contact him, why not reach out to Will Graham? If he's willing to help…"
Price shot a sharp glance at Zeller, frustration etched across his face.
"Look what you've done! Now Starling is saying his name."
Zeller rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Get over it, Jimmy. We should absolutely call Will Graham. But Jack has made it crystal clear that we're not allowed to contact Will Graham, so here we are—stuck in limbo." Each time he uttered Will's name, he fixed his gaze on Price, who was visibly paling.
"What problems does Agent Crawford have with Will Graham?" Clarice asked, leaning in closer.
Zeller let out a theatrical sigh, leaning back as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.
"Where do I even begin?"
Before he could elaborate, Price interjected, urgency lacing his tone.
"Trust me, you don't want to hear any of it, Clarice. This is not a topic for normal people. It's strictly for professional psychiatrists."
Zeller raised an eyebrow, casting a sidelong glance at Price.
"Isn't this how this mess started?" he retorted.
Just then, Jimmy slapped Zeller's arm again, a warning in his eyes.
"Cut it out! Bad Zeller!"
Clarice watched the tense exchange unfold, bewilderment written on her face. She had always believed that Will Graham simply opted for an early retirement from the FBI, a common enough story given the intense cases he had tackled over the years. However, the tension between Zeller and Price suggested a much different narrative hidden beneath the surface. It seemed a gag order from Jack Crawford kept the real story under wraps, and whenever Zeller attempted to spill the beans, Jimmy acted as his self-appointed keeper.
But if what Zeller hinted was true, then Will Graham was still out there somewhere. The thought of reaching out to him—collaborating, gaining his insights—sent a surge of exhilaration coursing through Clarice. The mere idea of tackling a case alongside someone as brilliant as Will Graham was intoxicating, enough to make her heart race.
"…And I'm just fed up with Jack's stubbornness!" Zeller exclaimed, frustration pouring out of him. "We have resources at our fingertips, but he insists on playing the martyr. I have every right to be annoyed!"
"I hear you, buddy, but can you keep that annoyance quieter like the rest of us?" Price shot back, exasperation creeping into his voice.
"Wait a minute, guys!" Clarice interjected, raising her hands in a gesture that could quell a brawl. "Are you telling me that Jack Crawford has officially forbidden you from contacting Will Graham?"
"Yes!" both men replied in perfect harmony, their irritation practically radiating off them.
A contemplative silence fell over Clarice as a sudden idea sparked in her mind.
"…But Crawford didn't say anything about me reaching out to Will Graham, correct?"
Price's face drained of colour, while Zeller's expression brightened, lighting up the room like a festive display.
"Oh no, no, no! That's a terrible idea! Don't even consider it!" Price warned, lunging toward her as if he could physically block her thoughts.
"On the contrary, Clarice! That's a brilliant idea!" Zeller exclaimed, his enthusiasm bubbling over as he sprinted to a nearby desk, frantically jotting down a note while Jimmy trailed after him, panic etched on his face.
"Don't do it! Seriously, this is an extremely bad idea!" Price shouted, desperation creeping into his tone.
"This is a fantastic idea!" Zeller insisted, determination propelling him closer to Clarice, while Jimmy desperately tried to pull him back, his eyes wide with alarm.
"Jack will kill you. To death."
Zeller stood firm, unwavering against the relentless onslaught of Jimmy's words. His eyes sparkled with determination as he faced Clarice.
"I can't give you any specific details, but if you happen to discover something on your own, that would be entirely your doing, not mine," he said, his gaze piercing into hers with a fiery intensity that sent a thrill coursing through her veins. Behind him, Jimmy leaned in closer, his face twisted with panic.
"You're so dead, Brian. I can almost see rigor mortis setting in!"
Zeller simply ignored him and asked,
"Tell me, Agent Starling, do you enjoy fishing?"
Caught off guard, Clarice blinked, a hint of surprise crossing her face. "I've never been fishing," she admitted.
With a knowing smile, Zeller slid a neatly folded piece of paper across the table.
"Well, you should consider casting your line at this spot. It's something special, and you might find it educational."
Meanwhile, Price sighed in resignation, shaking his head.
"It's been a pleasure working with you, Brian. I'll clean the autopsy table for you."