“Starling, do you have any recollection of what I told you to do with the Lecter information?” Crawford’s voice was so terribly quiet.
“Give you a report by 0900 Sunday.”
“Do that, Starling. Do just exactly that.”
“Yes sir.”
The dial tone stung in her ear. The sting spread over her face and made her eyes burn.
“Well God fucking shit,” she said. “You old creep. Creepo son of a bitch. Let Miggs squirt you and see how you like it.”
* * *
Starling, scrubbed shiny and wearing her FBI Academy nightgown, was working on the second draft of her report when her dormitory roommate, Ardelia Mapp, came in from the library. Mapp’s broad, brown, eminently sane countenance was one of the more welcome sights of her day.
Ardelia Mapp saw the fatigue in her face.
“What did you do today, girl?” Mapp always asked questions as if the answers could make no possible difference.
“Wheedled a crazy man with come all over me.”
“I wish I had time for a social life—I don’t know how you manage it, and school too.”
Starling found that she was laughing. Ardelia Mapp laughed with her, as much as the small joke was worth. Starling did not stop, and she heard herself from far away, laughing and laughing. Through Starling’s tears, Mapp looked strangely old and her smile had sadness in it.
CHAPTER 5
Jack Crawford, fifty-three, reads in a wing chair by a low lamp in the bedroom of his home. He faces two double beds, both raised on blocks to hospital height. One is his own; in the other lies his wife, Bella. Crawford can hear her breathing through her mouth. It has been two days since she last could stir or speak to him.
She misses a breath. Crawford looks up from his book, over his half-glasses. He puts the book down. Bella breathes again, a flutter and then a full breath. He rises to put his hand on her, to take her blood pressure and her pulse. Over the months he has become expert with the blood pressure cuff.
Because he will not leave her at night, he has installed a bed for himself beside her. Because he reaches out to her in the dark, his bed is high, like hers.
Except for the height of the beds and the minimal plumbing necessary for Bella’s comfort, Crawford has managed to keep this from looking like a sickroom. There are flowers, but not too many. No pills are in sight—Crawford emptied a linen closet in the hall and filled it with her medicines and apparatus before he brought her home from the hospital. (It was the second time he had carried her across the threshold of that house, and the thought nearly unmanned him.)
A warm front has come up from the south. The windows are open and the Virginia air is soft and fresh. Small frogs peep to one another in the dark.
The room is spotless, but the carpet has begun to nap—Crawford will not run the noisy vacuum cleaner in the room and uses a manual carpet sweeper that is not as good. He pads to the closet and turns on the light. Two clipboards hang on the inside of the door. On one he notes Bella’s pulse and blood pressure. His figures and those of the day nurse alternate in a column that stretches over many yellow pages, many days and nights. On the other clipboard, the day-shift nurse has signed off Bella’s medication.
Crawford is capable of giving any medication she may need in the night. Following a nurse’s directions, he practiced injections on a lemon and then on his thighs before he brought her home.
Crawford stands over her for perhaps three minutes, looking down into her face. A lovely scarf of silk moiré covers her hair like a turban. She insisted on it, for as long as she could insist. Now he insists on it. He moistens her lips with glycerine and removes a speck from the corner of her eye with his broad thumb. She does not stir. It is not yet time to turn her.
At the mirror, Crawford assures himself that he is not sick, that he doesn’t have to go into the ground with her, that he himself is well. He catches himself doing this and it shames him.
Back at his chair he cannot remember what he was reading. He feels the books beside him to find the one that is warm.
CHAPTER 6
On Monday morning, Clarice Starling found this message from Crawford in her mailbox:
CS:
Proceed on the Raspail car. On your own time. My office will provide you a credit card number for long distance calls. Ck with me before you contact estate or go anywhere. Report Wednesday 1600 hours.
The Director got your Lecter report over your signature. You did well.
JC
SAIC/Section 8
Starling felt pretty good. She knew Crawford was just giving her an exhausted mouse to bat around for practice. But he wanted to teach her. He wanted her to do well. For Starling, that beat courtesy every time.
Raspail had been dead for eight years. What evidence could have lasted in a car that long?
She knew from family experience that, because automobiles depreciate so rapidly, an appellate court will let survivors sell a car before probate, the money going into escrow. It seemed unlikely that even an estate as tangled and disputed as Raspail’s would hold a car this long.
There was also the problem of time. Counting her lunch break, Starling had an hour and fifteen minutes a day free to use the telephone during business hours. She’d have to report to Crawford on Wednesday afternoon. So she had a total of three hours and forty-five minutes to trace the car, spread over three days, if she used her study periods and made up the study at night.
She had good notes from her Investigative Procedures classes, and she’d have a chance to ask general questions of her instructors.
During her Monday lunch, personnel at the Baltimore County Courthouse put Starling on hold and forgot her three times. During her study period she reached a friendly clerk at the courthouse, who pulled the probate records on the Raspail estate.
The clerk confirmed that permission had been granted for sale of an auto and gave Starling the make and serial number of the car, and the name of a subsequent owner off the title transfer.
On Tuesday, she wasted half her lunch hour trying to chase down that name. It cost her the rest of her lunch period to find out that the Maryland Department of Motor Vehicles is not equipped to trace a vehicle by serial number, only by registration number or current tag number.
On Tuesday afternoon, a downpour drove the trainees in from the firing range. In a conference room steamy with damp clothing and sweat, John Brigham, the ex-Marine firearms instructor, chose to test Starling’s hand strength in front of the class by seeing how many times she could pull the trigger on a Model 19 Smith & Wesson in sixty seconds.
She managed seventy-four with her left hand, puffed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and started over with her right while another student counted. She was in the Weaver stance, well braced, the front sight in sharp focus, the rear sight and her makeshift target properly blurred. Midway through her minute, she let her mind wander to get it off the pain. The target on the wall came into focus. It was a certificate of appreciation from the Interstate Commerce enforcement division made out to her instructor, John Brigham.
She questioned Brigham out of the side of her mouth while the other student counted the clicks of the revolver.
“How do you trace the current registration…”
“… sixtyfivesixtysixsixtysevensixtyeightsixty…”
“… of a car when you’ve only got the serial number…”
“seventyeightseventynineeightyeightyone…”
“… and the make? You don’t have a current tag number.”
“… eightynine ninety. Time.”
“All right, you people,” the instructor said, “I want you to take note of that. Hand strength’s a major factor in steady combat shooting. Some of you gentlemen are worried I’ll call on you next. Your worries would be justified—Starling is well above average with both hands. That’s because she works at it. She works at it with the little squeezy things you all have access to. Most of you are not used to squeezing anything harder than yo
ur”—ever vigilant against his native Marine terminology, he groped for a polite simile—“zits,” he said at last. “Get serious, Starling, you’re not good enough either. I want to see that left hand over ninety before you graduate. Pair up and time each other—chop-chop.
“Not you, Starling, come here. What else have you got on the car?”
“Just the serial number and make, that’s it. One prior owner five years ago.”
“All right, listen. Where most people f—fall into error is trying to leapfrog through the registrations from one owner to the next. You get fouled up between states. I mean, cops even do that sometimes. And registrations and tag numbers are all the computer’s got. We’re all accustomed to using tag numbers or registration numbers, not vehicle serial numbers.”
The clicking of the blue-handled practice revolvers was loud all over the room and he had to rumble in her ear.
“There’s one way it’s easy. R. L. Polk and Company, that publishes city directories—they also put out a list of current car registrations by make and consecutive serial number. It’s the only place. Car dealers steer their advertising with them. How’d you know to ask me?”
“You were ICC enforcement, I figured you’d traced a lot of vehicles. Thanks.”
“Pay me back—get that left hand up where it ought to be and let’s shame some of these lilyfingers.”
Back in her phone booth during study period, her hands trembled so that her notes were barely legible. Raspail’s car was a Ford. There was a Ford dealer near the University of Virginia who for years had patiently done what he could with her Pinto. Now, just as patiently, the dealer poked through his Polk listings for her. He came back to the telephone with the name and address of the person who had last registered Benjamin Raspail’s car.
Clarice is on a roll, Clarice has got control. Quit being silly and call the man up at his home in, lemme see, Number Nine Ditch, Arkansas. Jack Crawford will never let me go down there, but at least I can confirm who’s got the ride.
No answer, and again no answer. The ring sounded funny and far away, a double rump-rump like a party line. She tried at night and got no answer.
At Wednesday lunch period, a man answered Starling’s call:
“WPOQ Plays the Oldies.”
“Hello, I’m calling to—”
“I wouldn’t care for any aluminum siding and I don’t want to live in no trailer court in Florida, what else you got?”
Starling heard a lot of the Arkansas hills in the man’s voice. She could speak that with anybody when she wanted to, and her time was short.
“Yessir, if you could help me out I’d be much obliged. I’m trying to get ahold of Mr. Lomax Bardwell? This is Clarice Starling?”
“It’s Starling somebody,” the man yelled to the rest of his household. “What do you want with Bardwell?”
“This is the Mid-South regional office of the Ford recall division? He’s entitled to some warranty work on his LTD free of charge?”
“I’m Bardwell. I thought you was trying to sell me something on that cheap long distance. It’s way too late for any adjustment, I need the whole thing. Me and the wife was in Little Rock, pulling out of the Southland Mall there?”
“Yessir.”
“Durn rod come out through the oil pan. Oil all over everywhere and that Orkin truck that’s got the big bug on top of it? He hit that oil and got sideways.”
“Lord have mercy.”
“Knocked the Fotomat booth slap off the blocks and the glass fell out. Fotomat fella come wandering out addled. Had to keep him out of the road.”
“Well I’ll be. What happened to it then?”
“What happened to what?”
“The car.”
“I told Buddy Sipper at the wrecking yard he could have it for fifty if he’d come get it. I expect he’s parted it out.”
“Could you tell me what his telephone number is, Mr. Bardwell?”
“What do you want with Sipper? If anybody gets something out of it, it ought to be me.”
“I understand that, sir. I just do what they tell me till five o’clock, and they said find the car. Have you got that number, please?”
“I can’t find my phone book. It’s been gone a good while now. You know how it is with these grandbabies. Central ought to give it to you, it’s Sipper Salvage.”
“Much oblige, Mr. Bardwell.”
The salvage yard confirmed that the automobile had been stripped and pressed into a cube to be recycled. The foreman read Starling the vehicle serial number from his records.
Shit House Mouse, thought Starling, not entirely out of the accent. Dead end. Some Valentine.
Starling rested her head against the cold coin box in the telephone booth. Ardelia Mapp, her books on her hip, pecked on the door of the booth and handed in an Orange Crush.
“Much oblige, Ardelia. I got to make one more call. If I can get done with that in time, I’ll catch up with you in the cafeteria, okay?”
“I was so in hopes you’d overcome that ghastly dialect,” Mapp said. “Books are available to help you. I never use the colorful patois of my housing project anymore. You come talking that mushmouth, people say you eat up with the dumb-ass, girl.” Mapp closed the phone booth door.
Starling felt she had to try for more information from Lecter. If she already had the appointment, maybe Crawford would let her return to the asylum. She dialed Dr. Chilton’s number, but she never got past his secretary.
“Dr. Chilton is with the coroner and the assistant district attorney,” the woman said. “He’s already spoken to your supervisor and he has nothing to say to you. Good-bye.”
CHAPTER 7
“Your friend Miggs is dead,” Crawford said. “Did you tell me everything, Starling?” Crawford’s tired face was as sensitive to signals as the dished ruff of an owl, and as free of mercy.
“How?” She felt numb and she had to handle it.
“Swallowed his tongue sometime before daylight. Lecter suggested it to him, Chilton thinks. The overnight orderly heard Lecter talking softly to Miggs. Lecter knew a lot about Miggs. He talked to him for a little while, but the overnight couldn’t hear what Lecter said. Miggs was crying for a while, and then he stopped. Did you tell me everything, Starling?”
“Yes sir. Between the report and my memo, there’s everything, almost verbatim.”
“Chilton called up to complain about you.…” Crawford waited, and seemed pleased when she wouldn’t ask. “I told him I found your behavior satisfactory. Chilton’s trying to forestall a civil rights investigation.”
“Will there be one?”
“Sure, if Miggs’ family wants it. Civil Rights Division will do probably eight thousand this year. They’ll be glad to add Miggs to the list.” Crawford studied her. “You okay?”
“I don’t know how to feel about it.”
“You don’t have to feel any particular way about it. Lecter did it to amuse himself. He knows they can’t really touch him for it, so why not? Chilton takes his books and his toilet seat for a while is all, and he doesn’t get any Jell-O.” Crawford laced his fingers over his stomach and compared his thumbs. “Lecter asked you about me, didn’t he?”
“He asked if you were busy. I said yes.”
“That’s all? You didn’t leave out anything personal because I wouldn’t want to see it?”
“No. He said you were a Stoic, but I put that in.”
“Yes, you did. Nothing else?”
“No, I didn’t leave anything out. You don’t think I traded some kind of gossip, and that’s why he talked to me.”
“No.”
“I don’t know anything personal about you, and if I did I wouldn’t discuss it. If you’ve got a problem believing that, let’s get it straight now.”
“I’m satisfied. Next item.”
“You thought something, or—”
“Proceed to the next item, Starling.”
“Lecter’s hint about Raspail’s car is a dead end. It was mashed
into a cube four months ago in Number Nine Ditch, Arkansas, and sold for recycling. Maybe if I go back in and talk to him, he’ll tell me more.”
“You’ve exhausted the lead?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think the car Raspail drove was his only car?”
“It was the only one registered, he was single, I assumed—”
“Aha, hold it.” Crawford’s forefinger pointed to some principle invisible in the air between them. “You assumed. You assumed, Starling. Look here.” Crawford wrote assume on a legal pad. Several of Starling’s instructors had picked this up from Crawford and used it, but Starling didn’t reveal that she’d seen it before.
Crawford began to underline. “If you assume when I send you on a job, Starling, you can make an ass out of u and me both.” He leaned back, pleased. “Raspail collected cars, did you know that?”
“No, does the estate still have them?”
“I don’t know. Do you think you could manage to find out?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Where would you start?”
“His executor.”
“A lawyer in Baltimore, a Chinese, I seem to remember,” Crawford said.
“Everett Yow,” Starling said. “He’s in the Baltimore phone book.”
“Have you given any thought to the question of a warrant to search Raspail’s car?”
Sometimes Crawford’s tone reminded Starling of the know-it-all caterpillar in Lewis Carroll.
Starling didn’t dare give it back, much. “Since Raspail is deceased and not suspected of anything, if we have permission of his executor to search the car, then it is a valid search, and the fruit admissible evidence in other matters at law,” she recited.
“Precisely,” Crawford said. “Tell you what: I’ll advise the Baltimore field office you’ll be up there. Saturday, Starling, on your own time. Go feel the fruit, if there is any.”
Crawford made a small, successful effort not to look after her as she left. From his wastebasket he lifted in the fork of his fingers a wad of heavy mauve notepaper. He spread it on his desk. It was about his wife and it said, in an engaging hand:
The Silence of the Lambs Page 4
