Thomas Harris - The Silence of the Lambs

"That Pilcher, Doctor Pilcher at the Smithsonian, called three times. Made me promise to tell you he called."

"He's not a doctor."

"You think you might do something about him?"

"Maybe. I don't know yet."

"He sounds like he's pretty funny. I've about decided funny's the best thing in men, I'm talking about aside from money and your basic manageability."

"Yeah, and manners too, you can't leave that out."

"Right. Give me a son of a bitch with some manners every time."

Starling went like a zombie from the shower to the bed.

Mapp kept her reading light on for a while, until Starling's breathing was regular. Starling jerked in her sleep, a muscle in her cheek twitched, and once her eyes opened wide.

Mapp woke sometime before daylight, the room feeling empty. Mapp turned on her light. Starling was not in her bed. Both of their laundry bags were missing, so Mapp knew where to look.

She found Starling in the warm laundry room, dozing against the slow rump-rump of a washing machine in the smell of bleach and soap and fabric softener. Starling had the psychology background-- Mapp's was law-- yet it was Mapp who knew that the washing machine's rhythm was like a great heartbeat and the rush of its waters was what the unborn hear-- our last memory of peace.

Jack Crawford woke early on the sofa in his study and heard the snoring of his in-laws in his house. In the free moment before the weight of the day came on him, he remembered not Bella's death, but the last thing she'd said to him, her eyes clear and calm: "What's going on in the yard?"

He took Bella's grain scoop and, in his bathrobe, went out and fed the birds as he had promised to do. Leaving a note for his sleeping in-laws, he eased out of the house before sunrise. Crawford had always gotten along with Bella's relatives, more or less, and it helped to have the noise in the house, but he was glad to get away to Quantico.

He was going through the overnight telex traffic and watching the early news in his office when Starling pressed her nose to the glass of the door. He dumped some reports out of a chair for her and they watched the news together without saying anything. Here it came.

The outside of Jame Gumb's old building in Belvedere with its empty storefront and soaped windows covered with heavy gates. Starling hardly recognized it.

"Dungeon of Horrors," the news leader called it.

Harsh, jostled pictures of the well and the basement, still cameras held up before the television camera, and angry firemen waving the photographers back. Moths crazed by the television lights, flying into the lights, a moth on the floor on its back, wings beating down to a final tremor.

Catherine Martin refusing a stretcher and walking to the ambulance with a policeman's coat around her, the dog sticking its face out between the lapels.

A side view of Starling walking fast to a car, her head down, hands in the pockets of her coat.

The film was edited to exclude some of the more grisly objects. In the far reaches of the basement, the cameras could show only the low, lime-sprinkled thresholds of the chambers holding Gumb's tableaux. The body count in that part of the basement stood at six so far.

Twice Crawford heard Starling expel air through her nose. The news went to a commercial break.

"Good morning, Starling."

"Hello," she said, as though it were later in the day.

"The U.S. Attorney in Columbus faxed me your depositions overnight. You'll have to sign some copies for him… So you went from Fredrica Bimmel's house to Stacy Hubka, and then to the Burdine woman at the store Bimmel sewed for, Richards' Fashions, and Mrs. Burdine gave you Mrs. Lippman's old address, the building there."

Stalling nodded. "Stacy Hubka had been by the place a couple of times to pick up Fredrica, but Stacy's boyfriend was driving and her directions were vague. Mrs. Burdine had the address."

"Mrs. Burdine never mentioned a man at Mrs. Lippman's?"

"No."

The television news had film from Bethesda Naval Hospital. Senator Ruth Martin's face framed in a limousine window.

"Catherine was rational last night, yes. She's sleeping, she's sedated right now. We're counting our blessings. No, as I said before, she's suffering from shock, but she's rational. Just bruises, and her finger is broken. And she's dehydrated as well. Thank you." She poked her chauffeur in the back. "Thank you. No, she mentioned the dog to me last night, I don't know what we'll do about it, we already have two dogs."

The story closed with a nothing quote from a stress specialist who would be talking with Catherine Martin later in the day to assess emotional damage.

Crawford shut it off.

"How're you hittin 'em, Starling?"

"Kind of numb… you too?"

Crawford nodded, quickly moved along. "Senator Martin's been on the phone overnight. She wants to come see you. Catherine does too, as soon as she can travel."

"I'm always home."

"Krendler too, he wants to come down here. He asked for his memo back."

"Come to think of it, I'm not always home."

"Here's some free advice. Use Senator Martin. Let her tell you how grateful she is, let her hand you the markers. Do it soon. Gratitude has a short half-life. You'll need her one of these days, the way you act."

"That's what Ardelia says."

"Your roomie, Mapp? The Superintendent told me Mapp's set to cram you for your makeup exams on Monday. She just pulled a point and a half ahead of her archrival, 'Stringfellow, he tells me."'

"For valedictorian?"

"He's tough, though, Stringfellow-- he's saying she can't hold him off."

"He best bring his lunch."

In the clutter on Crawford's desk was the origami chicken Dr. Lecter had folded. Crawford worked the tail up and down. The chicken pecked.

"Lecter's gone platinum-- he's at the top of everybody's Most Wanted list," he said. "Still, he could be out for a while. Off the post, you need some good habits."

She nodded.

"He's busy now," Crawford said, "but when he's not busy, he'll entertain himself. We need to be clear on this: You know he'd do it to you, just like he'd do anybody else."

"I don't think he'd ever bushwhack me-- it's rude, and he wouldn't get to ask any questions that way. Sure he'd do it as soon as I bored him."

"Maintain good habits is all I'm saying. When you go off the post, flag your three-card-- no phone queries on your whereabouts without positive ID. I want to put a trace-alert on your telephone, if you don't mind. It'll be private unless you push the button."

"I don't look for him to come after me, Mr. Crawford."

"But you heard what I said."

"I did. I did hear."

"Take these depositions and look ' em over. Add if you want to. We'll witness your' signatures here when you're ready. Starling, I'm proud of you. So is Brigham, so is the Director." It sounded stiff, not like he wanted it to sound.

He went to his office door. She was going away from him, down the deserted hall. He managed to hail her from his berg of grief: "Starling, your father sees you."

Jame Gumb was news for weeks after he was lowered into his final hole.

Reporters pieced together his history, beginning with the records of Sacramento County:

His mother had been carrying him a month when she failed to place in the Miss Sacramento Contest in 1948. The "Jame" on his birth certificate apparently was a clerical error that no one bothered to correct.

When her acting career failed to materialize, his mother went into an alcoholic decline; Gumb was two when Los Angeles County placed him in a foster home.

At least two scholarly journals explained that this unhappy childhood was the reason he killed women in his basement for their skins. The words crazy and evil do not appear in either article.