“Could Johns Hopkins be a protected witness, Mr. Crawford? Could we have a new identity? Move us to Bob Jones College, say? I doubt very much that the FBI or any other government agency can keep a secret very long.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I doubt it. Trying to crawl out from under an inept bureaucratic lie would be more damaging than just telling the truth. Please don’t ever protect us that way, thank you very much.”
“Thank you, Dr. Danielson, for your humorous remarks. They’re very helpful to me—I’ll show you how in a minute. You like the truth—try this. He kidnaps young women and rips their skins off. He puts on these skins and capers around in them. We don’t want him to do that anymore. If you don’t help me as fast as you can, this is what I’ll do to you: this morning the Justice Department will ask publicly for a court order, saying you’ve refused to help. We’ll ask twice a day, in plenty of time for the A.M. and P.M. news cycles. Every news release from Justice about this case will say how we’re coming along with Dr. Danielson at Johns Hopkins, trying to get him to pitch in. Every time there’s news in the Buffalo Bill case—when Catherine Martin floats, when the next one floats, and the next one floats—we’ll issue a news release right away about how we’re doing with Dr. Danielson at Johns Hopkins, complete with your humorous comments about Bob Jones College. One more thing, Doctor. You know, Health and Human Services is right here in Baltimore. My thoughts are running to the Office of Eligibility Policy, and I expect your thoughts got there first, didn’t they? What if Senator Martin, sometime after her daughter’s funeral, asked the fellows over at Eligibility this question: Should the sex-change operations you perform here be considered cosmetic surgery? Maybe they’ll scratch their heads and decide, ‘Why, you know, Senator Martin’s right. Yes. We think it’s cosmetic surgery,’ then this program won’t qualify for federal assistance an
y more than a nose-job clinic.”
“That’s insulting.”
“No, it’s just the truth.”
“You don’t frighten me, you don’t intimidate me—”
“Good. I don’t want to do either one, Doctor. I just want you to know I’m serious. Help me, Doctor. Please.”
“You said you’re working with Alan Bloom.”
“Yes. The University of Chicago—”
“I know Alan Bloom, and I’d rather discuss this on a professional level. Tell him I’ll be in touch with him this morning. I’ll tell you what I’ve decided before noon. I do care about the young woman, Mr. Crawford. And the others. But there’s a lot at stake here, and I don’t think it’s as important to you as it ought to be.… Mr. Crawford, have you had your blood pressure checked recently?”
“I do it myself.”
“And do you prescribe for yourself?”
“That’s against the law, Dr. Danielson.”
“But you have a doctor.”
“Yes.”
“Share your findings with him, Mr. Crawford. What a loss to us all if you dropped dead. You’ll hear from me later in the morning.”
“How much later, Doctor? How about an hour?”
“An hour.”
Crawford’s beeper sounded as he got off the elevator at the ground floor. His driver, Jeff, was beckoning as Crawford trotted to the van. She’s dead and they found her, Crawford thought as he grabbed the phone. It was the Director calling. The news wasn’t as bad as it could get, but it was bad enough: Chilton had butted into the case and now Senator Martin was stepping in. The attorney general of the state of Maryland, on instructions from the governor, had authorized the extradition to Tennessee of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. It would take all the muscle of the Federal Court, District of Maryland, to prevent or delay the move. The Director wanted a judgment call from Crawford and he wanted it now.
“Hold on,” Crawford said. He held the receiver on his thigh and looked out the van window. There wasn’t much color in February for the first light to find. All gray. So bleak.
Jeff started to say something and Crawford hushed him with a motion of his hand.
Lecter’s monster ego. Chilton’s ambition. Senator Martin’s terror for her child. Catherine Martin’s life. Call it.
“Let them go,” he said into the phone.
CHAPTER 29
Dr. Chilton and three well-pressed Tennessee state troopers stood close together on the windy tarmac at sunrise, raising their voices over a wash of radio traffic from the open door of the Grumman Gulfstream and from the ambulance idling beside the airplane.
The trooper captain in charge handed Dr. Chilton a pen. The papers blew over the end of the clipboard and the policeman had to smooth them down.
“Can’t we do this in the air?” Chilton asked.
“Sir, we have to do the documentation at the moment of physical transfer. That’s my instructions.”