“Bella, John. Let’s make it Bella.”
“Can I do anything for you, Jack?”
Crawford shook his head. “I’m just working. I’m just gonna work now.”
“Right,” Golby said. He waited the decent interval. “Frederick Chilton asked for federal protective custody.”
“Grand. John, is somebody in Baltimore talking to Everett Yow, Raspail’s lawyer? I mentioned him to you. He might know something about Raspail’s friends.”
“Yeah, they’re on it this morning. I just sent Burroughs my memo on it. The Director’s putting Lecter on the Most Wanted. Jack, if you need anything…” Golby raised his eyebrows and his hand and backed out of sight.
If you need anything.
Crawford turned to the windows. He had a fine view from his office. There was the handsome old Post Office building where he’d done some of his training. To the left was the old FBI headquarters. At graduation, he’d filed through J. Edgar Hoover’s office with the others. Hoover stood on a little box and shook their hands in turn. That was the only time Crawford ever met the man. The next day he married Bella.
They had met in Livorno, Italy. He was Army, she NATO staff, and she was Phyllis then. They walked on the quays and a boatman called “Bella” across the glittering water and she was always Bella to him after that. She was only Phyllis when they disagreed.
Bella’s dead. That should change the view from these windows. It wasn’t right this view stayed the same. Had to fucking die on me. Jesus, kid. I knew it was coming but it smarts.
What do they say about forced retirement at fifty-five? You fall in love with the Bureau, but it doesn’t fall in love with you. He’d seen it.
Thank God, Bella had saved him from that. He hoped she was somewhere today and that she was comfortable at last. He hoped she could see in his heart.
The phone was buzzing its intraoffice buzz.
“Mr. Crawford, a Dr. Danielson from—”
“Right.” Punch. “Jack Crawford, Doctor.”
“Is this line secure, Mr. Crawford?”
“Yes. On this end it is.”
“You’re not taping, are you?”
“No, Dr. Danielson. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I want to make it clear this has nothing to do with anybody who was ever a patient at Johns Hopkins.”
“Understood.”
“If anything comes of it, I want you to make it clear to the public he’s not a transsexual, he had nothing to do with this institution.”
“Fine. You got it. Absolutely.” Come on, you stuffy bastard. Crawford would have said anything.
“He shoved Dr. Purvis down.”
“Who, Dr. Danielson?”
“He applied to the program three years ago as John Grant of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.”
“Description?”
“Caucasian male, he was thirty-one. Six feet one, a hundred and ninety pounds. He came to be tested and did very well on the Wechsler intelligence scale—bright normal—but the psychological testing and the interviews were another story. In fact, his House-Tree-Person and his TAT were spot-on with the sheet you gave me. You let me think Alan Bloom authored that little theory, but it was Hannibal Lecter, wasn’t it?”
“Go on with Grant, Doctor.”
“The board would have turned him down anyway, but by the time we met to discuss it, the question was moot because the background checks got him.”